SNAP  SHOTS 

/roirv  |H| 

SUNNY 

AFRICA 

HELEN  E-  fll 
SPRINGERS) 


0i  t\xe 

PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


Purchased  by  the  Hamill  Missionary  Fund. 


Division 


nan 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/snapsshotsfromsuOOspri 


MRS.  JOHN  M.  SPRINGER 


SNAP  SHOTS 

FROM 

SUNNY  AFRICA 


By  ✓ 

MRS.  JOHN  M.  SPRINGER 


New  York  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 

Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 

Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


To 

My  Mother 
who 

Gave  her  only  child 
to 

Africa 


INTRODUCTION 


General  r.  s.  s.  baden-powell,  of 

the  English  army,  for  years  a distinguished 
soldier  and  traveller  in  South  Africa,  in  his 
Foreword  to  “ Some  African  Highways,’7  a recent 
interesting  book  by  Caroline  Kirkland,  says : — 

“ How  I should  like  to  be  a woman  ! It  must  be 
nice  to  lie  back  in  your  cushions  and  watch  the  men 
doing  things  which  they  think  very  clever,  knowing 
all  the  time  that  you  can  do  them  much  better  your- 
self if  you  only  care  to  try. 

“For  instance:  I am  convinced  that  if  women 
were  to  take  up  the  art  of  scouting  they  would  easily 
beat  men  at  the  game. 

“They  have  a greater  natural  gift  of  observation 
and  a most  uncannily  clever  knack  of  1 putting  this 
and  that  together  ’ and  then  deducing  meaning  from 
the  smallest  signs. 

“ Hence  it  comes  that  when  women  travel  into  the 
lesser-known  countries  of  the  world,  as  they  fre- 
quently do  nowadays,  they  bring  this  power  of  ob- 
servation into  play  with  remarkable  results.  And  of 
all  women  in  the  world  I would  place  our  American 
cousins  at  the  top  of  the  list  for  this  particular 
quality. 

“Unfortunately  it  is  only  too  seldom  that  they 
record  their  impressions,  but  when  they  do  their 

7 


8 


Introduction 


pages  ripple  with  little  touches  both  quaint  and 
human  which  are  the  direct  result  of  quick  observa- 
tion and  which  go  to  paint  the  character  of  the  coun- 
tries and  people  far  more  vividly  than  the  more 
erudite  writings  of  the  mere  man  who  plods  along 
basing  his  remarks  very  largely  on  what  he  has 
already  read  or  been  told  of  the  country  now  spread 
out  before  them.” 

These  short  stories  by  Mrs.  Springer  are  a good 
illustration  of  General  Baden-PowelFs  estimate  of 
American  women  as  intelligent  travellers,  able  to 
put  their  observations  into  up-to-date,  vigorous 
English. 

The  pictures  are  from  actual  life  during  several 
years  of  residence  and  travel  in  Africa,  and  have 
been  written  with  the  purpose  of  aiding  those  espe- 
cially interested  in  the  redemption  of  that  continent 
to  understand  better  the  conditions  of  the  people  and 
the  missionary  labours  among  them. 

Any  of  these  “ Snapshots”  would  be  excellent 
reading  in  meetings  of  the  Woman’s  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Society,  of  Epworth  Leagues,  or  of  Sunday- 
schools,  where  Africa  is  the  theme.  They  could  not 
fail  to  arrest  the  attention  and  fix  the  thought  of 
those  who  hear  them  upon  the  pagan  heathenism 
which  now  enthralls  more  than  one  hundred  million 
of  the  people  of  that  great  continent. 


Joseph  C.  Habtzell. 


PREFACE 


IT  was  about  a year  ago  that  we  sat  at  lunch  one 
day  with  Bishop  Hartzell  in  one  of  the  crowded 
restaurants  of  New  York  when  the  Bishop  sud- 
denly remarked,  u Mrs.  Springer,  I think  it  would  be 
an  excellent  thing  for  you  to  collect  and  work  over 
into  book  form  the  many  stories  and  articles  which 
have  been  appearing  from  your  pen  during  the  past 
five  years.” 

It  was  not  a new  thought.  On  leaving  Africa, 
Mr.  Springer  has  insisted  on  bringing  all  my  old 
MSS.  along  with  us  to  America  for  this  very  purpose. 
But  so  far  I had  not  felt  that  I could  work  them  up 
into  readable  matter.  Nor  did  the  Bishop’s  sugges- 
tion convince  me. 

But  as  I travelled  about  speaking  almost  constantly, 
I saw  that  there  was  a need  of  some  book  of  short 
missionary  stories  which  could  be  used  in  meetings 
of  the  Woman’s  Foreign  Missionary  Society,  Ep worth 
Leagues,  Christian  Endeavours,  Sunday-schools  and 
all  other  missionary  meetings  for  which  it  is  often  so 
difficult  to  arrange  a live  and  interesting  program. 

Last  fall  I seemed  to  be  providentially  laid  aside 
from  platform  work  for  three  months  and  it  also 
seemed  as  if  that  were  God’s  time  for  me  to  take  up 
this  work  of  writing. 

The  title  is  meant  to  be  a true  indication  of  the 
character  of  the  book.  It  is  not  a history  of  our 
work  in  Ehodesia,  but  a collation  of  such  a variety 
of  incidents  of  that  work  that  I trust  the  whole  book 
will  give  the  reader  an  insight  to  the  real  life  and 

9 


io 


Preface 


work  of  a missionary  just  as  the  amateur  snap- sliot 
photo  album  reveals  more  of  the  every-day  lives  of 
its  subjects  than  the  most  finished  productions  of  the 
studio. 

The  chapters  are  purposely  short  and  each  one  is  a 
complete  story  in  itself,  and  yet  there  is  a line  of  con- 
tinuity throughout  the  whole  book.  I have  given 
the  real  names  of  our  native  helpers  in  order  that  the 
reader  may  become  acquainted  with  them  as  they 
appear  and  reappear  in  the  various  chapters.  These 
chapters  are  not  arranged  in  chronological  order  but 
are  grouped  in  reference  to  subjects  so  that  when 
desired,  two  or  three  persons  may  read  a chapter  each 
at  a single  meeting. 

The  articles  which  had  been  already  printed  were 
all  rewritten,  the  incidents  being  brought  down  to 
date,  while  many  entirely  new  chapters  were  added  on 
subjects  about  which  I was  most  frequently  questioned. 

As  Mr.  Springer  has  so  fully  described  our  trip 
across  the  continent  in  his  book,  “ The  Heart  of  Cen- 
tral Africa,”  which  was  published  this  spring  by 
Jennings  and  Graham,  I have  only  touched  upon  it, 
enlarging  upon  some  incidents  which  he  was  com- 
pelled to  treat  rather  briefly  and  from  his  viewpoint. 

So  this  little  volume  goes  forth  with  the  writer’s 
prayer  that  it  may  not  only  be  helpful  to  individuals, 
but  that  also  it  may  be  of  especial  service  in  many  a 
missionary  meeting  where  it  may  make  real  to  the 
hearers  the  joys,  the  successes,  the  sorrows  and  the 
failures  and  discouragements,  but  withal  the  actual 
conditions  of  our  every-day  missionary  work. 

Helen  E.  Springer. 

Chicago , III. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

Striking  the  Trail  . 

15 

II. 

Attending  a Native  Dance  . 

20 

III. 

Physician  to  the  King  . 

24 

IV. 

The  Passing  of  Ufambasiku 

30 

V. 

The  Making  of  a Dictionary  . 

35 

VI. 

The  Bantu  and  Their  Languages 

39 

VII. 

Difficulties  of  an  Unknown  Tongue 

43 

VIII. 

Down  the  Ages 

48 

IX. 

Shakeni 

52 

X. 

Her  First  Vacation 

57 

XI. 

For  Christian  Burial 

61 

XII. 

Our  Last  Night — Trekking  by  Ox 

Wagon 

65 

XIII. 

In  the  Hundi  Valley 

7i 

XIV. 

What’s  in  a Name?  . 

78 

XV. 

An  African  Vanity  Fair 

82 

XVI. 

On  the  Trail  to  Tete 

87 

XVII. 

A Tale  of  Two  Donkeys 

92 

XVIII. 

The  Glorious  Fourth  in  Africa 

98 

XIX. 

Christmas  at  Old  Umtali 

103 

XX. 

When  Greek  Meets  Greek 

109 

XXL 

Buying  a Trousseau 

113 

XXII. 

Mukonyerwa  .... 

118 

II 


12 

Contents 

XXIII. 

Kaduku,  the  Little  One 

124 

XXIV. 

Sunday  at  Gandanzara’s 

133 

XXV. 

Watapa’s  Wedding 

139 

XXVI. 

Sweet  Sixteen 

145 

XXVII. 

To  Be  or  Not  to  Be 

148 

XXVIII. 

Perpetual  Blisters 

153 

XXIX. 

Bicycling  in  Central  Africa 

157 

XXX. 

The  Buffalo  at  the  501  2th  Ant- 
Hill  

162 

XXXI. 

The  Land  of  Sour  Mush 

165 

XXXII. 

Sour  Mush  and  Sweet  Jam 

170 

XXXIII. 

The  Soul  of  a Chicken 

173 

XXXIV. 

John  Webba  . 

179 

XXXV. 

Tried  as  by  Fire  . 

183 

XXXVI. 

After  Many  Days 

190 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 

Mrs.  John  M.  Springer  . Title 

The  Three.  Gumba,  Shakeni  and  Basi  . . 22 

Mt.  Hartzell  at  Old  Umtali  ....  35 

Travelling  by  Ox  Wagon 87 

On  the  Trail  to  Tete 87 

The  First  White  Wedding  at  Old  Umtali  Mis- 
sion   103 

The  Belles  of  the  Capitol  . . . .118 

Female  Adornments  in  Native  Styles  . *145 

Camp  Near  the  “ 501  2th  ” Ant-Hill  . . . 157 

Kanshanshi  Copper  Mine  in  N.  W.  Rhodesia, 

Africa . 157 

Women  Pounding  Grain 167 

A Hand  Grist  Mill 167 


13 


Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 


i 

STRIKING  THE  TRAIL 

PEBHAPS  it  was  not  such  an  unpardonable 
crime  after  all  which  my  friend  committed 
that  blustering  May  day  when  he  took  the 
snap  shot  that  so  nearly  ruptured  our  social  relations. 
Looking  back  on  it  with  a long  perspective  and  con- 
sidering the  great  satisfaction  with  which  on  a later 
day  I more  than  rewarded  him  for  his  untiring  ef- 
forts to  secure  photographical  u studies/7  I am  con- 
vinced that  his  was  a venial  sin. 

In  fact  Pm  almost  sorry  that  no  copy  of  the  dis- 
puted, hotly  disputed,  print  is  in  existence.  It  must 
have  been  a grotesque  figure,  clad  in  a short  skirt, 
stout,  well-worn  boots,  heavy  gloves  and  a large  six- 
penny Madeira  hat  securely  tied  down  over  the  ears 
on  account  of  the  high  winds,  which  went  out  of  Old 
TJmtali  that  day  to  enjoy  the  new  experience  of  liv- 
ing in  a native  kraal  alone. 

Nor  were  the  other  three  members  of  the  little 
caravan  with  her  less  appealing  to  the  risibles. 
There  was  Shakeni,  young  and  beautiful,  gracefully 
balancing  a candle  box  on  her  head,  never  touching 
it  with  her  hands  except  when  the  unhappy  occupant, 

15 


i 6 Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

who  for  the  most  part  crouched  in  one  corner  in  ab- 
ject terror,  suddenly  gave  a plunge  to  the  other  side 
emitting  at  the  same  time  one  of  his  unearthly  feline 
yowls. 

There  were  also  two  half-grown  youths,  one  of 
whom  carried  blankets  and  clothing,  and  the  other  a 
box  in  which  were  a few  cooking  utensils  and  some 
raw  material  to  be  used  in  them.  I was  indebted  to 
my  friend  Heinkel  for  these  men, — if  such  you  could 
call  them.  Two  more  dilapidated  specimens  would 
have  been  hard  to  find.  He  admitted  that  they  had 
not  been  selected  by  him  on  account  of  personal 
beauty  nor  muscular  strength,  but  for  the  reason  so 
many  other  things  are  done  out  there, — they  were 
all  he  had. 

That  first  year  (and  ever  after  for  that  matter)  but 
particularly  in  that  first  year,  I had  good  reason  to 
be  thankful  that  I was  a good  walker.  What  with 
red  water  killing  the  oxen,  horse  sickness  the  horses 
and  mules,  and  pyemia  wiping  out  whole  spans  of 
donkeys  in  the  country,  it  was  quite  the  style  for  all 
but  the  very  wealthy  to  walk  for  the  good  of  their 
health  and  the  regulation  of  their  livers. 

So  on  this  morning,  I started  out  to  make  my  seven 
mile  walk  with  gratitude  that  it  was  not  ten.  There’s 
nothing  truly  so  bad  in  this  world  that  it  might  not 
be  worse.  But  the  last  three  miles  that  day,  as  the 
sun  rose  to  the  zenith,  were  hot  and  toilsome  ones, 
though  I would  not  have  acknowledged  to  my  fellow 
missionary  who  met  me  at  Shikanga’s  kraal  how 
weary  I was,  no  not  for  anything. 

It  was  noon  and  he  was  expecting  me,  as  he  had 
been  engaged  for  a week  in  getting  a hut  built  for  me 


17 


Striking  the  Trail 

there.  So  dinner  was  soon  served.  I was  hungry  as 
well  as  weary.  There  was  no  place  for  us  to  eat  ex- 
cept out  in  the  open,  as  the  women  were  just  finishing 
the  floor  of  the  hut  I was  to  occupy  and  he  was  using 
a tiny  tent.  So  we  sat  down  on  a big  rock  in  the 
centre  of  the  village  and  were  soon  served  with  bully 
beef  and  hot  tea. 

Bully,  or,  as  it  is  commercially  known,  corned  beef, 

I loathed.  And  as  we  were  soon  surrounded  by  some 
twenty  nearly  naked  youngsters  in  indescribable  states 
of  filthiness,  I began  to  realize  that  after  all,  I did  not 
care  for  anything  to  eat,  but  was  merely  thirsty.  And 
the  tea ! The  water  with  which  to  make  it  came  from 
a spring  where  all  the  natives  got  their  water  ; and  was 
an  opaque,  grayish  white,  so  that  unless  it  were  la- 
belled, it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  the  decoction  was 
tea  or  coffee. 

Standing  on  decorum,  I said  nothing  of  the  turmoils 
going  on  in  the  internal  regions.  Had  I done  so,  I 
might  have  been  favoured  with  the  advice  which  in 
recent  years  has  come  to  be  quite  a family  motto  : ' 
u Cheer  up,  the  worst  is  to  come.”  But  we  were  both 
on  our  good  behaviour,  and  neither  liked  to  admit  to 
the  other  how  horribly  repulsive  everything  was. 
We  feared  our  missionary  devotion  might  be  called 
in  question.  Bless  you ! Devotion  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  We  were  only  natural  human  beings, 
neither  deprived  of  sight,  nor  taste,  nor  smell.  We 
needed  stronger  stomachs  and  we  got  them, — in  time. 

But  the  worst  was  to  come.  Shikanga  greeted  me 
most  graciously  and  welcomed  me  to  her  kraal  most 
hospitably.  And  as  a token  of  that  hospitality,  when 
she  cooked  her  evening  meal,  she  sent  me  over  a por- 


18  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

tion.  It  was  a large,  brown  ball  with  some  ques- 
tionable looking  greens  accompanying  it. 

The  new  missionary,  though  he  has  nothing  of  this 
world’s  goods,  is  certain  to  be  rich  in  theories.  I 
was  wealthy  along  that  line  and  that  alone.  With 
sugar  and  flour  at  twenty-four  cents  a pound,  butter 
seventy-five  cents,  cabbages  11.25,  eggs  at  $5  a dozen, 
I was  convinced  that  unless  I could  have  a more  suc- 
cessful experiment  on  green  sawdust  than  the  Irish- 
man’s horse,  I must  get  used  to  u native  diet.” 

It  sounded  well — at  home.  But  here  I was  in 
touch  with  it.  Now,  as  I had  not  overloaded  my 
stomach  at  noon,  I was  ready  for  something  substan- 
tial by  night.  There  could  not  have  been  a more 
opportune  time  to  start  in  on  the  native  diet.  There 
was  the  added  advantage  that  it  was  dark,  and  the 
glimmering  light  of  the  one  flickering  candle  did  not 
reveal  the  unpleasant  features  of  the  midday.  Every- 
thing was  in  the  favour  of  the  thick  mush  known  to 
the  natives  as  sadsa. 

It  would  not  yield  itself  to  the  friendly  offices  of  a 
knife.  The  sadsa , which  for  centuries  had  known 
only  the  manipulations  of  human  fingers,  gripped  and 
clung  to  and  followed  the  knife  until  it  won  out,  and 
the  knife  was  vanquished.  A spoon  did  a little  bet- 
ter. I managed  to  get  off  a small  portion  of  mush 
on  the  spoon  and  then  tried  to  chew  it  only  to  learn 
to  my  sorrow  that  it  was  not  meant  to  be  chewed. 
But  having  started,  I had  to  exceed  the  Gladstonian 
count  before  I had  extricated  my  teeth  and  cleared 
my  mouth. 

However,  I tried  again  and  again,  on  the  theory 
that  practice  makes  perfect ; and  at  last  managed 


J9 


Striking  the  Trail 

to  get  enough  down  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  my 
stomach.  My  appetite  had  been  satisfied  on  the  first 
mouthful.  The  next  morning  (having  been  raised  on 
fried  corn-meal  mush  up  in  Maine)  I felt  sure  that  I 
could  overcome  my  doughty  adversary.  I had  it 
fried.  When  it  was  served,  it  looked  less  appetizing 
than  before  and  proved  stickier  than  ever.  It  would 
not  go  down. 

When  I sent  the  dilapidated  carriers  back  to  my 
friend,  I wrote,  u And  if  you  can  manage  it,  I shall 
be  glad  to  have  a loaf  of  bread  when  the  carriers  come 
again.”  And  he  faithfully  supplied  me  with  bread 
the  likes  of  which  it  seemed  I’d  never  seen  before  nor 
ever  since,  during  all  those  two  months  in  the  kraals, 
and  without  it,  I could  not  have  stayed  and  kept  in 
health. 

Mr.  Springer,  who  had  built  the  hut,  went  away 
and  I was  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  left  alone  in  a 
heathen  kraal.  I confess  now,  what  I would  not  have 
admitted  then  for  worlds,  that  I did  feel  afraid.  And 
had  I known  of  the  dance  that  was  on  for  that  night, 
I should  have  been  still  more  afraid.  Ignorance  in 
that  case  was  bliss.  But  He  that  watched  over  Israel 
neither  slumbered  nor  slept  $ and  so  no  harm  came 
to  me. 


II 


ATTENDING  A NATIVE  DANCE 

I’M  a good  Methodist — don’t  believe  in  dancing. 
It’s  a heathenish  practice  brought  down  from 
time  immemorial  and  always  has  been  connected 
with  bad  habits  and  worse  results. 

It  was  noon  on  Saturday  when  Basi  came  in  and 
said,  11  There’s  to  be  a dance  here  to-night  and 
mother  would  like  you  to  go.” 

I gave  her  a non-committal  answer  and  decided  I 
would  find  some  excuse  for  staying  away  when  the 
evening  came. 

However,  in  that  case  I reckoned  without  my  host- 
ess. I learned  very  soon  my  mistake.  Whoso  goes 
to  live  in  the  kraals  to  achieve  good  results  must 
needs  take  the  chief  into  account  and  that  right  often. 

At  six-thirty,  Basi,  Shikanga’s  daughter  came  in 
again  and  said,  “Shikanga  says  for  you  to  come  to 
the  dance  now.” 

There  was  no  escape  for  me. 

Basi  led  the  way  to  a hut  only  a few  yards  from  my 
own,  inside  which  could  be  heard  the  sounds  of  revelry. 
With  difficulty,  I stooped  under  the  low  eaves  and 
entered  through  the  tiny  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  hut 
which  can  only  by  courtesy  be  called  a door. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  walls  of  native  huts  are 
plastered  with  mud  within  and  without,  the  eaves  of 
the  roofs  extend  to  within  a short  distance  of  the 
ground  all  the  way  round. 

20 


Attending  a Native  Dance  2i 

Now  to  enter  the  door,  it  was  necessary  to  stoop 
under  this  low  roof,  the  stakes  of  which  frequently 
caught  in  my  dress  just  between  the  shoulders,  bring- 
ing me  up  with  a jerk.  The  shock  was  equally  try- 
ing to  my  nerves  and  disposition  so  that  I afterwards 
remarked  to  Mr.  Springer  that  I was  certain  those 
roofs  had  so  effectually  scraped  off  my  wings  that 
they  surely  never  would  grow  again. 

What  a sight ! On  the  one  side  sat  the  women 
apart  from  the  men  packed  in  as  thick  as  sardines. 
On  the  other  side  was  the  big  drum  and  a goodly 
number  of  the  men.  At  the  rear  was  Shikanga  who 
was  expecting  me. 

As  I entered,  she  arose  gracefully  and  beckoned  me 
to  her  side,  the  seat  of  honour,  on  a mat  exclusively 
for  her  Majesty’s  use.  It  is  hard  to  understand  how 
any  space  could  have  been  reserved  in  that  small  hut 
in  which  was  gathered  not  only  the  people  of  that  one 
kraal  but  from  all  the  surrounding  kraals. 

The  village  blacksmith  was  exercising  his  brawny 
muscles  on  the  drum  and  the  effect  was  deafening. 
Just  in  front  of  the  door  was  another  small  space  into 
which  a young  buck  by  the  name  of  Shilling  suddenly 
jumped.  He  had  worked  at  the  mission  $ and  being 
a very  graceful  dancer,  was  anxious  to  show  off  his 
skill  before  me. 

I was  too  new  in  the  language  to  understand  much 
of  his  song  which  he  acted  out  as  he  went  along. 
Now  his  motions  were  rhythmical,  then  they  took  a 
crescendo  and  the  fortissimo  was  marked  by  leaps 
into  the  air  of  so  vigorous  a character  as  to  remind 
me  of  David  dancing  before  the  ark.  I do  not  doubt 
but  what  David’s  dance  was  on  the  same  order  as 


22  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Shilling’s.  For  so  long  as  I remained  in  the  hut,  all 
the  singing  and  dancing  were  perfectly  proper,  as  far 
as  I could  judge. 

When  Shilling  finished  with  a display  of  fine 
acrobatic  feats,  Shikanga  took  the  floor.  I judged 
that  Shilling  had  recited  some  thrilling  history  of  the 
people.  Shikanga  seemed  to  be  giving  a romance  or 
a bit  of  folk-lore  and  her  acting  and  dancing  were  in- 
different. 

Two  or  three  other  men  danced  with  less  skill  than 
Shilling.  All  this  time  the  drum  kept  a deafening 
accompaniment  while  one  and  another  of  the  women 
punctuated  it  with  a peculiar  shriek  made  by  tremo- 
loing  with  the  hand  over  the  mouth.  The  whole  ef- 
fect was  ear-splitting  and  after  an  hour  of  it,  I began 
to  wonder  if  I would  be  permitted  to  escape. 

Just  then  came  a lull  for  refreshments.  Several 
huge  jars  of  native  brewed  beer  stood  near  Shikanga. 
(Trust  her  to  be  near  the  beer  every  time  in  those 
days. ) Asa  gourdful  of  this  was  being  passed  around, 
I asked  to  leave  as  the  heat  had  given  me  a headache, 
— I did  not  mention  the  smell  and  the  sound, — and 
Shikanga  gracefully  bowed  me  out.  She  had  done 
the  duties  of  a hostess  and  was  evidently  decidedly 
glad  to  see  me  go.  Basi,  Gumba,  Shikanga’ s niece, 
and  Shakeni  went  with  me. 

What  a night  that  was ! Once  I was  gone,  the 
restraint  was  off,  the  beer  flowed  freely  and  every 
man,  woman  and  child  in  that  kraal  except  the  three 
girls  with  me  became  beastly  drunk.  It  seemed  like 
a night  in  the  infernal  regions.  Twice  Shikanga 
came  to  my  door  and  demanded  it  to  be  opened.  She 
had  then  reached  the  fighting  stage  and  she  and  an- 


THE  THREE 

Gumba,  Shakeni  and  Basi 


Attending  a Native  Dance  23 

other  woman  had  a fight  in  the  doorway.  The  sounds 
round  about  the  hut  were  fairly  sickening.  Most 
of  the  men  and  women  were  yelling  like  demons.  It 
was  simply  horrible. 

With  the  first  gray  dawn  of  the  Sabbath,  the  revel- 
lers came  again  and  as  the  girls  opened  the  door, 
they  swarmed  in,  drunk  but  most  of  them  silly,  good- 
humoredly  drunk.  I managed  to  get  into  my  bath 
robe  but  it  was  nearly  ten  before  the  hut  was  cleared 
so  that  I could  dress. 

Yet  four  years  later,  Shikanga  asked  us  to  send  her 
a teacher.  She  helped  build  a church,  was  converted 
and  to-day  over  forty  of  her  people  with  herself  con- 
stitute a native  church  in  her  kraal. 

But  even  our  most  optimistic  faith  would  have  stag- 
gered at  such  a hope  then.  We  had  to  learn  thereby 
the  truth  that  God’s  hand  is  not  shortened  but  that 
He  can  certainly  save  to  the  uttermost. 


m 


PHYSICIAN  TO  THE  KING 

SHIKANGA’S  slight  form  darkened  the  door- 
way. She  entered,  sat  down  on  a soap  box 
which  served  in  place  of  a chair  and  took  a 
pinch  of  snuff.  She  was  not  used  to  soap  boxes  nor 
chairs  either,  and  the  elevation  somewhat  embarrassed 
her.  After  a vigorous  blowing  of  the  nose  as  an 
after-effect  of  the  snuff,  she  wiped  her  hand  on  her 
loin  cloth,  cleared  her  throat  and  began. 

As  I come  to  know  the  oriental  better,  I marvel 
more  and  more  at  the  wonderful  simplicity  and  brev- 
ity of  the  Bible.  Circumlocution  thrives  in  eastern 
soil.  On  the  present  occasion  Shikanga  proceeded  to 
set  forth  at  length  a long  preamble  of  which  I could 
only  understand  a little  now  and  then.  But  when 
she  got  through  the  preliminaries,  she  announced  to 
me  that  her  father  the  king  was  very  ill  and  she 
wanted  me  the  Mufundisi  (teacher)  and  Nganga 
(doctor)  to  go  up  and  give  him  medicine. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  I did  not  want  to 
yield  to  her  request ; one  being  that  I felt  reasonably 
safe  living  alone  in  her  kraal  for  I was  within  call  of 
her  own  hut.  I knew  the  king’s  kraal  to  be  a 
wicked  place  and  one  in  which  a white  woman 
might  not  be  safe  unless  other  white  people  were  near. 
Even  Jonas  declared  that  he  would  not  live  there. 
There  were  other  reasons,  none  of  which  I could 
24: 


25 


Physician  to  the  King 

explain  to  her  highness  so  I merely  tried  to  put  her 
off.  But  no,  her  father  was  sick  unto  death  and  I 
could  cure  him.  I told  her  I would  send  him  some 
medicine  and  by  and  by  would  go  up.  She  seemed 
satisfied  and  left,  and  I was  happy. 

Not  so  Shakeni  : she  knew  Shikanga.  So  she  began 
to  lament  about  the  cold  up  at  Mtasa’s  kraal.  Then 
she  went  out  and  brought  in  three  big  logs  and  built 
a roaring  fire,  all  the  time  bemoaning  how  little  wood 
and  how  much  cold  there  was  at  Mtasa’s. 

There  was  no  outlet  for  the  smoke  except  at  the 
door  and  it  was  soon  dense  enough  to  affect  the 
hardest  slab  of  sugar-cured  bacon  let  alone  my  eyes, 
and  hot  enough  to  roast  out  a salamander.  After 
supper  I tried  to  write  but  the  wind,  which  came  in 
under  the  eaves,  blew  out  the  candle  so  I went  to 
bed  on  the  home-made  couch  of  sticks  and  poles. 

That  being  alongside  of  the  fire,  I was  worse  off 
than  ever.  So  when  there  was  a fresh  burst  of  lam- 
entation, I exclaimed,  “But  roasting  me  to  death 
down  here  will  not  keep  you  from  dying  with  the  cold 
up  there,  so  pull  some  of  that  wood  off  the  fire.” 
Whereat  the  humorous  side  of  the  situation  struck 
Shakeni  and  she  broke  into  an  immoderate  fit  of 
laughter. 

The  wind  blew  colder  and  colder  and  the  fire  died 
down  ; the  rats  raced  up  and  down  the  walls,  Bobby 
chasing  after  them  ; the  bed  was  hard  and  a shower 
of  borer  dust  fell  continually  from  the  roof,  but  I 
slept  well  in  spite  of  all. 

Shakeni  arose  at  daylight  and  no  sooner  had  she 
opened  the  door  to  go  out  for  kindlings,  than  the  na- 
tives began  to  pour  in,  some  with  eggs,  peanuts,  or 


26  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

meal  to  sell  and  some  for  medicine.  As  soon  as  I 
could  dispose  of  the  lot,  the  door  was  securely  locked 
until  I had  had  a chance  to  dress. 

By  eight  o’clock  I had  treated  fifteen  patients  of 
whom  many  were  babies  suffering  horribly  with  ec- 
zema, their  hands  and  feet  being  a mass  of  sores  so 
that  they  had  to  be  bandaged. 

Just  as  I had  sat  down  to  breakfast  Shikanga  came 
in  again  and  took  her  seat  on  the  soap  box  with  great 
dignity,  helped  herself  to  the  preliminary  pinch  of 
snuff,  called  Shakeni  to  come  near  so  that  I could 
surely  understand  what  she  was  saying  and  then  pro- 
ceeded in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way  to  tell  me  that 
she  had  engaged  two  carriers  for  my  loads,  and  as 
soon  as  they  had  eaten,  we  would  start  for  Mtasa’s 
kraal,  “ Ku  Guta,”  she  said,  which  means  the  capital. 

By  nine  we  were  on  the  trail  tramping  towards  the 
north.  The  paths  were  very  slippery  from  the  dried 
grass  on  them,  and  it  was  a very  tired  white  woman 
who  climbed  the  steep  mountain  late  that  afternoon 
after  doing  fourteen  miles  to  its  foot. 

After  Shikanga  had  been  to  see  her  father,  she  told 
me  that  I had  better  not  see  him  that  night  as  her 
father  had  had  “ a little  too  much  beer.”  For  which 
I was  glad, — not  that  he  was  drunk,  but  that  I did 
not  have  to  see  him  that  day. 

So  Shakeni  and  I slept  in  a little  tent  which  I had 
made  of  unbleached  muslin  for  a child’s  play  tent. 
Early  in  the  evening  a heavy  mist  settled  over  the 
mountain  and  dripped  through  our  thin  shelter,  trick- 
ling down  in  tiny  streams  on  the  inside.  The  girl’s 
fears  of  cold  were  fully  realized  on  that  and  the  suc- 
ceeding nine  weeks  of  our  stay  there. 


27 


Physician  to  the  King 

However  she  snored  soundly  all  night  at  my  side 
while  I dozed  fitfully  on  account  of  the  cold  and  the 
wind  which  howled  through  the  ravine,  whistled 
through  the  tree  tops  and  among  the  giant  boulders 
threatening  every  moment  to  carry  away  what  little 
shelter  we  did  have. 

About  nine  the  next  morning,  Shikanga  came  again 
and  with  her  the  king’s  chief  counsellor,  Nsebe,  to 
escort  me  into  the  royal  presence.  Nsebe  was  the 
right  man  in  the  right  place.  He  possessed  all  the 
affability,  obsequiousness,  blandishments,  the  easy 
grace  and  pleasing  manners  of  a French  courtier  of 
the  middle  ages ; and  like  them,  a love  of  intrigue 
which  was  in  no  wise  hampered  by  a tender  con- 
science. 

Through  the  raw,  white  fog  which  enveloped  the 
mountain,  and  the  incredible  filth  under  our  feet,  we 
threaded  our  way  in  and  out  among  the  huge  boul- 
ders and  the  little  haystack-like  huts,  under  low, 
arched  ways,  guarded  by  sentinels,  over  slippery 
rocks,  and  winding  our  way  upward  until  we  came  to 
a very  small  hut  under  the  shelter  of  a huge  shelving 
boulder  on  the  top  of  which  another  immense  boulder 
just  hung,  as  it  were,  by  its  eyebrows. 

Here  Nsebe  stopped,  began  to  clap  his  hands  softly 
and  chant  something  in  a dull  monotone.  After  a 
while,  there  came  a gruff,  grumbled  response  from 
within  and  then  Nsebe  put  his  hand  through  an 
aperture  at  the  side  of  the  door,  pulled  out  the  heavy 
wooden  pin  which  barred  it  on  the  inside  and  entered. 

Squatting  down  near  the  door,  he  told  the  king  who 
we  were  and  what  we  had  come  for,  all  the  time  accom- 
panying all  he  said  by  the  clapping  of  hands.  And 


28  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

this  preliminary  had  to  be  gone  through  every  visit  I 
made  even  though,  as  for  weeks,  I went  to  the  king 
two  or  three  times  a day. 

This  ceremony  ended,  he  came  back  to  the  door 
and  called  the  rest  of  us  in.  Not  even  Shikanga  was 
permitted  to  enter  the  royal  hut  unceremoniously. 

The  door  was  so  small,  the  eaves  so  low  (the  inside 
floor  being  lower  than  the  outside)  that  I nearly  fell 
head  first  into  the  hut  as  I entered.  Dungeon-like 
darkness  prevailed  and  at  first  I could  see  nothing. 
Some  one  took  my  hand  and  placed  it  in  the  long, 
bony,  outstretched  one  of  the  king.  Then  I saw  a 
gaunt,  emaciated  figure  sitting  on  a mat  and  recog- 
nized the  king  of  the  Manika. 

They  stirred  up  the  fire  into  a blaze,  and  one  lighted 
a piece  of  candle  I had  brought  along.  What  a sight 
that  was  before  me  ! The  whole  chin  and  upper  lip 
were  one  putrid,  sloughing  sore  over  which  the  scabs 
had  formed  a half  an  inch  or  more  in  depth  while  odd 
sores  were  scattered  all  over  his  neck  and  body.  The 
stench  was  sickening. 

Kneeling  there  in  front  of  him,  close  to  the  now 
sizzling  fire,  I worked  for  a half  hour  dressing  that 
distorted  face.  Then  I gave  him  some  medicine  and 
left,  saying  that  I would  be  back  at  noon  to  give  him 
more  medicine  and  would  dress  the  sores  again  at 
night.  For  I knew  that  if  I left  medicine  with  in- 
structions for  it  to  be  taken  at  noon,  it  would  all  be 
drunk  at  once.  If  I wanted  the  medicine  taken  regu- 
larly, I must  go  in  person  and  see  that  it  was  done. 

Then  I rose  painfully  from  my  cramped  position 
and  emerged  awkwardly  out  into  the  cold,  raw,  misty 
day.  My  head  reeled,  my  stomach  heaved  and  what 


Physician  to  the  King  29 

with  my  stiff  joints  and  sore  muscles  from  the  previous 
day’s  journey,  I could  hardly  walk. 

Did  it  pay?  Yes,  a hundred  percent.,  though  the 
compensation  came  only  after  many  long  days. 


IV 


THE  PASSING  OF  UFAMBASIKU 

THERE’S  a new  Mtasa  now  and  a new  Guta. 

When  the  old  king  died,  the  customs  of  the 
Manika  led  them  to  first  spend  one  month 
of  mourning,  during  which  they  drowned  their  grief 
in  native  brewed  beer,  thus  using  up  most  of  the  grain 
so  that  a famine  followed.  During  this  time  the  body 
of  the  dead  chief  was  slowly  dried  and  smoked  over  a 
fire.  Then  he  was  secretly  buried,  after  which  the 
old  kraal  was  abandoned  so  that  his  wandering 
spirit  might  never  be  disturbed. 

Four  years  later,  we  passed  through  the  site  of  the 
old  kraal.  It  was  a difficult  thing  to  do  for  the  weeds 
and  grass  had  grown  up  into  an  almost  impenetrable 
jungle.  None  of  the  huts  were  left : there  were  only 
a few  foundations  to  mark  the  once  so  familiar 
ground. 

There  was  the  huge  pile  of  rocks  which  we  called 
the  Giant’s  Causeway  ; there  was  where  Chimbadzwa’s 
group  of  huts  had  stood  ; there  was  the  big,  ship-like 
boulder  under  which  Benzi  was  buried.  Was  Benzi 
really  murdered?  We  will  probably  never  know. 
But  the  wild,  savage,  hopeless  frenzy  of  that  funeral 
is  something  never  to  be  forgotten. 

And  here  was  where  the  Imp  and  Terror  used  to 
30 


3i 


The  Passing  of  Ufambasiku 

play.  They  were  bad  little  girls, — as  bad  as  the 
nicknames  we  gave  them.  The  Terror  has  long  since 
been  at  the  Old  Umtali  school  and  become  a fine 
Christian  girl.  She  may  be  married  now.  Several 
of  our  promising  young  evangelists  had  spoken  for 
her  hand  two  years  ago. 

And  there  was  where  I held  daily  dispensary, 
treating  dozens  of  patients  among  whom  were  Mu- 
ledzwa,  Shikanga’s  sister,  and  her  daughter  Mukon- 
yerwa.  She  was  wild  too  in  those  days,  wild  and 
boisterous  and  rough  but  not  especially  vicious. 
What  a change  came  over  her  at  the  school ! Sorrow 
matured  her  and  Christ  reclaimed  her  for  His  very 
own.  She  is  Stephen’s  wife  now,  a teacher  to  her 
own  people  on  an  out  station,  a woman  refined,  dig- 
nified and  singularly  attractive. 

Up  yonder  is  the  shelving  rock  and  on  it  the  big 
boulder  still  hangs  by  its  eyebrows.  It  always  seemed 
to  me  as  if  it  needed  no  more  than  the  slamming  of 
the  hut  door  to  bring  it  crashing  down. 

And  there  was  that  massive  face  of  sheer,  solid, 
unscalable  rock  at  the  back  of  the  kraal,  the  cap 
stone  of  the  mountain.  Only  the  droves  of  baboons 
could  get  a foothold  there.  How  they  would  chat- 
ter ! And  I can  hear  again  as  I heard  it  that  cold 
morning,  the  deep,  bass  “Ha,  ha,  ha”  of  some  big 
brute  who  broke  the  stillness  with  an  unmistakable 
laugh. 

We  made  our  way  slowly  through  the  masses  of 
blackjacks  whose  seeds  stuck  to  us  until  we  resembled 
porcupines.  It  was  only  seven  years  ago  that  Ufam- 
basiku died  and  the  new  Mtasa,  Chiobvu,  his  son, 
began  to  reign.  But  changes  are  many  and  rapid  in 


32  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Bhodesia  so  that  there  are  probably  but  few  left  who 
remember  the  old  Mtasa  and  the  old  Guta. 

I heard  various  versions  of  his  history  some  of 
which  agreed.  Jonas  gave  me  the  most  realistic  re- 
cital of  the  usual  version,  before  ever  I went  up  to 
treat  the  king,  while  still  at  Hartzell  Villa.  The 
wind  was  wailing  around  the  house  and  the  one  tallow 
candle  in  my  little  study  flickered  unsteadily,  throw- 
ing long  dark  shadows  into  the  hall. 

Jonas’  voice  dropped  almost  to  a whisper  as  he 
told  how  the  king  had  been  wont  to  visit  the  usurper’s 
kraal  ever  in  the  night  by  stealth.  At  length  he 
succeeded  in  getting  an  intrigue  with  one  of  the  wives. 
It  was  the  custom  of  the  king  to  sleep  in  a different 
hut  every  night  so  that  no  enemy  could  find  him. 
This  wife  agreed  to  tell  Ufambasiku  (The-one-who- 
walks-at-night)  when  the  pseudo  king  came  to  her 
hut. 

This  hut  was  in  a seemingly  inaccessible  position 
but  she,  at  a given  signal,  let  down  a rope  up  which 
the  rightful  successor  climbed.  Jonas’  voice  dropped 
into  a tragic  whisper  until  it  died  out  altogether  as 
he  drew  his  hand  significantly  across  his  throat. 
And  Mtasa  had  held  the  power  he  had  so  violently 
secured  for  about  forty  or  fifty  years,  a reign  of  abso- 
lute despotism  until  the  advent  of  the  white  pioneers 
in  1890. 

I had  done  my  best  to  redeem  the  old  man’s  diseased 
and  almost  decayed  body.  He  improved  rapidly  at 
first.  The  sores  on  his  face  and  head  were  all  healed 
and  he  got  so  that  he  walked  out.  He  went  a mile 
or  two  one  day.  Then  the  witch  doctor  told  him  he 
was  well.  I told  him  he  was  not  and  that  he  must 


33 


The  Passing  of  Ufambasiku 

still  take  great  care,  live  a clean  life,  stick  to  his 
medicine  or  he  would  surely  die.  But  on  the  strength 
of  the  witch  doctor’s  statement,  he  held  a council  of 
his  head  men  who  passed  a resolution  affirming  his 
complete  recovery  and  then  he  had  a big  dance  and 
a big  drunk  and  in  two  weeks  all  the  benefits  of 
seven  were  wiped  out  and  Mtasa’ s days  were  surely 
numbered. 

I had  had  to  leave  him.  I shall  never  forget  the 
pain  it  gave  me  when  I paid  my  farewell  visit  to  him. 
He  could  no  longer  sit  up.  Shikanga  was  there, 
Muledzwa,  Nyakwanikwa,  his  notoriously  wicked 
sister,  and  Nsebe,  of  course.  Custom  forbade  that  I 
should  speak,  or  any  of  his  own  people  for  that 
matter,  directly  to  the  king.  So  Nsebe,  as  ever,  in- 
terpreted. 

There  was  an  agony  in  the  old  king’s  face,  an  ap- 
pealing interrogation  which  I tried  to  answer.  I 
said,  “ Mtasa,  you  are  going  to  take  a long  journey 
into  an  Unknown  Country.  When  I came  up  here, 
I did  not  know  your  paths.  There  is  not  a single 
one  you  do  not  know.  So  I asked  you  for  a guide 
and  you  always  gave  me  one. 

“ Now  you  are  going  where  you  will  need  a Guide 
and  I have  come  to  give  you  one.  Jesus  Christ,  our 
Saviour,  is  the  only  one  who  can  guide  you  into  the 
Land  Beyond.” 

The  dying  man  strained  his  deafening  ears  and 
turning  to  Nsebe  said,  “ What  is  that  she  is  saying  ? ” 

“She  says  she  is  going  away,”  answered  Nsebe, 
blandly.  It  was  no  use.  Perhaps  they  told  him 
later  ; I doubt  it.  And  so  he  passed  away. 

There’s  a new  Mtasa  now  and  a new  kraal  in  every 


34  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

sense  of  the  word.  There’s  a big  mission  up  there 
now  also  and  many  converts.  Old  things  are  slowly 
passing  away,  and  not  so  very  slowly  either.  Still 
it  takes  time  for  the  thorough  renewal  of  a nation. 
But  God’s  work  is  going  gloriously  on. 


MT.  HARTZELL  AT  OLD  UMTALI 


V 


THE  MAKING  OF  A DICTIONARY 
IEST  catch  your  hare,”  is  a familiar  adage. 


The  first  thing  in  a new  country  is  to  get 


the  language.  With  only  a small,  imper- 
fect dictionary  compiled  hastily  in  a district  several 
hundred  miles  away  from  us,  we  had  to  begin  at  the 
very  beginning  as  scores  of  other  missionaries  have 
had  to  do  among  the  hundreds  of  dialects  of  the 
Bantu  people. 

So  I asked  the  Lord  to  send  me  a boy  who  would 
teach  me  the  language  and  He  sent  me  Jonas.  Com- 
mend me  to  a boy  for  information.  If  it  is  to  be  had, 
he’s  got  it ; and  if  he’s  got  it,  he  is  willing  to  impart 
it.  A live  boy  generally  makes  it  his  particular  busi- 
ness to  know  what  is  going  on  around  him. 

So  Jonas  and  I went  up  to  Hartzell  Villa  to  live. 
It  was  a beautiful  eight- roomed  house  way  up  on  the 
side  of  Mt.  Hartzell  more  than  a quarter  of  a mile 
from  all  the  other  mission  buildings.  It  had  been 
built  by  a surveyor,  Mr.  Pickett,  at  a cost  of  $20,000. 
When  the  town  moved  and  the  government  com- 
pensated the  property  owners  for  their  houses  and 
then  turned  the  old  town  and  all  its  buildings  over  to 
Bishop  Hartzell  for  an  industrial  mission,  Mrs. 
Hartzell  chose  this  house  for  the  Woman’s  Foreign 
Missionary  Society.  The  bishop  deeded  it  over  to 


35 


36  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

that  Society  together  with  a fine  plot  of  thirty  acres 
of  land. 

So  I named  it  Hartzell  Villa  by  which  name  the 
deed  is  recorded.  Jonas  and  I did  “light  house- 
keeping.” He  was  engaged  ostensibly  to  do  the 
housework  but  as  there  was  so  little  to  do,  he  spent 
two-thirds  of  his  time  in  my  study  teaching  me  the 
language. 

There  was  little  cooking  to  do  for  it  was  at  the 
close  of  the  Boer  war  and  prices  were  high.  Eggs 
were  $5.00  a dozen,  cabbages  $1.25  each,  and  every- 
thing else  in  proportion.  Therefore,  we  lived  very 
simply,  indeed. 

As  to  furniture,  I had  a bed,  a table,  couch,  two 
chairs  and  a baby  organ.  Everything  else  was  made 
of  packing  and  provision  boxes  dressed  up  in  calico 
caps  and  petticoats. 

I had  no  stove  for  the  first  six  months.  Mr.  De- 
Witt  said  he  had  sent  home  for  one  and  would  give 
me  his  when  the  new  one  came  provided  it  lasted 
that  long  and  did  not  go  to  pieces  on  the  way  up. 

In  six  months’  time,  the  new  stove  came  from 
America  and  one  day  I heard  a knock  at  my  back 
door  and  there  was  the  old  stove  on  a wheelbarrow 
with  two  or  three  natives  to  do  the  pushing  and  two 
white  men  to  hold  it  together. 

They  set  it  up  on  bricks — the  legs  had  disappeared, 
no  one  knew  where.  One  covex  lid  was  missing  so 
they  brought  a teakettle  to  set  on  that  hole. 

Nevertheless  we  were  proud  of  having  a stove  even 
though  it  did  have  fits — smoking  us  nearly  out  of 
house  and  home  at  such  times.  Doubtless  the  same 
stove  is  still  in  use  at  Hartzell  Villa  to-day. 


37 


The  Making  of  a Dictionary 

But  with  such  limitations,  neither  Jonas  nor  I were 
tied  down  to  house  work  and  my  purpose  of  studying 
the  language  was  accomplished. 

It  surely  would  have  been  funny  to  an  observer.  I 
did  not  know  any  of  the  Chikaranga  nor  did  Jonas 
know  English.  His  keen  desire  to  learn  the  latter 
was  all  that  kept  him  useful  all  those  tedious 
months.  We  exchanged  commodities  along  the 
linguistic  line. 

It  was  desperately  hard  at  first.  Jonas  did  not 
know  what  I wanted  and  I had  not  even  a few  native 
words  at  my  command  with  which  to  make  myself 
clear.  If  only  I could  have  known  the  one  word 
“name”  or  the  brief  sentence,  4 4 What  is  this?”  I 
could  have  got  on  so  much  better. 

As  it  was,  I had  to  talk  English  which  made  me 
feel  idiotic  for  I knew  Jonas  could  not  understand  it, 
and  a vigorous  use  of  my  hands  which  were  far 
more  intelligible.  It  was  not  so  bad  with  nouns. 
Thank  fortune  that  a noun  is  the  name  of  an  object. 
You  can  point  to  an  object  and  even  the  most  stupid 
savage  will  soon  get  to  know  what  you  want.  But  the 
rest  of  the  parts  of  speech  came  very  reluctantly 
onto  the  platform.  It  takes  long,  weary  weeks  and 
sharp  eyes  and  ears  to  get  them. 

And  then  there  are  the  abstract  words.  It  took 
me  six  months  to  find  out  the  name  for  the  local 
dialect  of  the  Manika.  I knew  that  the  language 
prefix  throughout  the  Bantu  tongue  was  lei  or  some 
adaptation  of  it.  Thus  the  language  of  the  Bafiote  is 
Kifiote  and  the  language  of  the  Waswahili , Kiswahili. 
But  Jonas  shook  his  head  at  all  my  efforts. 

One  day  I was  in  the  kitchen  where  he  and 


38  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Shakeni,  who  was  paying  me  a visit,  were  laughing 
and  joking  merrily  together.  I could  follow  much 
of  the  conversation.  Jonas  was  doing  a little  brag- 
ging of  his  own  and  with  a glow  of  pride  remarked 
as  he  stepped  out  of  doors  to  hang  up  the  dish  wiper, 
“She  understands  Chinyika  perfectly.  She  knows 
everything  you  say.’ 1 

He  did  not,  however,  have  the  slightest  idea  that  I 
could  understand.  I almost  jumped  with  joy. 
Nyika  I knew  was  land  or  the  country:  Chinyika 
was  the  language  of  the  country.  Eureka  ! I’d  got 
it  at  last ! 

As  I got  my  list  of  words  from  Jonas  daily,  one  or 
more  of  the  other  missionaries  would  take  them  and 
verify  them  with  other  natives  on  the  place.  Then  I 
entered  them  in  alphabetical  order  in  a small  note- 
book. The  spelling  was  phonetical  and  often  had  to 
be  changed  later  when  the  small  book  gave  way  to  a 
larger  and  the  second  to  a still  larger  book. 

Then  the  time  came  when  it  all  had  to  be  typed, 
once  more  gone  over  with  several  natives  from 
different  parts  of  the  country  and  then  retyped  again. 
That  did  not  mean  perfection, — far  from  it.  But  it 
did  mean  that  it  was  ready  for  printing.  It  took 
four  years  to  collect,  classify,  verify  and  prepare 
2,000  native  and  4,000  English  words. 

But  probably  those  years  of  work  were  worth  more 
to  me  personally  than  to  any  one  else.  I came  to 
know  the  natives  as  only  one  can  who  is  able  to  talk 
with  them  in  their  own  tongue.  I got  to  know  so 
much  of  their  ways  and  to  see  things  through  their 
eyes.  And  knowing  them,  I learned  to  love  them. 


VI 


THE  BANTU  AND  THEIR  LANGUAGES 

THE  name  of  Bantu  was  first  used  by  Dr. 

Bleek,  the  first  great  philologist  to  deal 
with  the  African  languages.  He  applied  it 
to  the  vast  number  of  tribes  throughout  this  conti- 
nent whose  language  is  notable  for  its  prefix-pro- 
nominal system,  all  of  which  have  the  word  Bantu, 
or  some  slightly  varying  form,  used  to  designate  men , 
people. 

In  its  primitive  sense,  ntu  means  head.  Mu-ntu , is 
one  head  or  one  person  and  ba-ntu  is  the  plural  form. 

The  Bantu  occupy  a territory  from  five  degrees 
north  to  seventeen  degrees  south  latitude  on  the  west 
coast  and  from  the  equator  to  thirty-three  degrees 
south  on  the  east  coast  thus  covering  the  entire 
centre  of  the  continent  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Indian  Oceans. 

The  languages  arise  from  a common  stem  but  have 
become  divided  into  groups  which  differ  from  each 
other  like  Spanish  and  Portugese,  or  Italian  and 
French.  Inside  these  groups,  there  are  numerous 
dialects  not  more  marked  than  Scotch  and  English, 
or  Danish  and  Norwegian.  Such  is  the  case  with  the 
Chikaranga  which  is  used  in  the  eastern  part  of 
Southern  Rhodesia. 

The  historian  Theal  voices  the  opinion  of  all  others 
who  have  made  special  study  of  the  Bantu  languages 

39 


40  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

in  various  parts  of  the  continent,  when  he  says, 
“The  language  spoken  by  the  Bantu  is  of  high 
order,  subject  to  strict  grammatical  rules,  and 
adequate  for  the  expression  of  any  ideas  whatever. 
It  has  no  clicks  although  the  Zulus  have  adopted 
three  from  the  Bushman -Hottentots  and  only  in  cer- 
tain tribes  are  there  to  be  found  certain  sibilating 
sounds  which  are  difficult  for  an  adult  foreigner  to 
acquire.  ” 

The  construction  differs  entirely  from  all  European 
tongues.  There  is  no  gender  and  the  nouns  are  the 
governing  factor  in  the  sentence.  These  nouns  are 
divided  into  classes  which  vary  in  number  among 
different  tribes  but  which  average  about  twelve,  ac- 
cording to  Torrend. 

These  classes  are  formed  by  the  governing  prefix  of 
the  noun  : thus  muntuy  bantu  belong  naturally  to  the 
mu-ba  class ; chigaro , chair,  zwigaro , chairs,  belongs 
to  the  chi-zwi  class.  This  prefix  must  be  incorporated 
into  all  the  pronouns,  adjectives  and  verbs  connected 
with  it  in  the  sentence,  thus  : Chigaro  changu  chikuru 

wachiwona  here  f Chair  mine  big,  you  saw  it,  did 
you  ? Or  smoothly,  have  you  seen  my  big  chair  ? 

This  is  not  so  difficult  to  learn.  The  real  difficul- 
ties of  the  language  present  themselves  where  the 
original  prefixes  have  been  dropped  from  usage  in  the 
noun  itself  but  are  obliged  to  reappear  throughout 
the  sentence.  How  ngombe  is  the  one  form  for  both 
an  ox  and  oxen,  having  in  the  process  of  time  dropped 
its  i-dzi  prefixes.  In  usage,  however,  ngombe  yangu , 
is  my  ox,  ngombe  dzangu,  my  oxen. 

Closer  study  of  this  last  named  class  of  nouns  shows 
that  originally  they  had  the  prefix  Ji  or  yi  in  the 


The  Bantu  and  Their  Languages  41 

singular  as  all  Bantu  words  originally  began  with  a 
consonant  and  ended  with  a vowel.  This  is  still  true 
of  some  of  the  older,  purer  forms  of  the  west  coast 
dialects.  And  whenever  any  Bantu  word  ends  in  a 
consonant,  it  is  a corruption  with  some  foreign  ele- 
ment. 

Nothing  is  yet  known  with  certainty  of  the  origin 
of  the  Bantu.  It  is  quite  certain  that  they  have  been 
in  Africa  at  least  two  thousand  years  and  it  seems 
evident  that  their  migration  over  the  continent  was 
not  extensive  prior  to  2,000  years  ago.  It  is  prob- 
able that  they  came  to  Africa  as  early  as  3,000  years 
ago.  The  ruins  testify  to  that.  The  traces  of 
Semitic  blood  in  the  Makaranga  give  strong  colour 
to  the  theory  that  these  were  the  people  used  by  the 
Sabeans  or  Phoenicians  for  the  building  of  these  ruins. 

Many  great  writers  and  explorers  are  of  the  opinion 
that  the  Bantu  are  of  Semitic  rather  than  Hamitic 
stock.  Dr.  Bleek  also  thought  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt  but  that  the  Papuan,  Polynesian  and  Malay 
languages  were  related  to  it  and  that  the  prefix -pre- 
nominal  system  forms  almost  one  continuous  belt  of 
languages  on  both  sides  of  the  equator,  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Senegal  to  the  Sandwich  Islands. 

The  Hausa  language  of  the  Niger  Valley  is  the 
only  one  which  was  found  reduced  to  writing  and 
with  a literature  of  its  own.  Sir  Harry  Johnson  says 
of  it,  u This  most  remarkable  Hausa  speech  is  a con- 
necting link  between  the  Hamitic  and  Negro  language 
groups.  Even  at  the  present  day,  there  are  many 
links  existing  which  show  the  original  connection — 
both  physical  and  linguistic — between  the  Arab  and 
the  Negro.  ” 


42  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

The  same  writer  has  also  recently  brought  to  light 
the  interesting  fact  that  the  little  pigmies  of  the  great 
forests  have  been  found  not  to  have  any  language  of 
their  own  but  that  in  all  cases  they  have  adopted  and 
adapted  the  dialect  of  their  nearest  Bantu  neighbours. 

The  past  history  of  the  Bantu  is  and  always  will  be 
dark.  But,  thank  God,  a brighter  future  is  before 
them. 


VII 


DIFFICULTIES  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  TONGUE 

WE  were  over  at  the  Umtali  Academy  and  it 
was  tea  time.  Americans  at  home  can- 
not realize  the  enjoyment  of  the  four 
o’clock  cup  o’  tea  in  Africa.  It  is  an  oasis  in  the 
desert ; a half  hour  in  the  day  when  all  the  cares  and 
burdens  are  dropped  and  social  relaxation  prolongs 
life  and  health. 

It  was  a particularly  delightful  period  at  the 
Academy.  This  afternoon  there  was  a new  and  a 
green  boy  in  the  kitchen.  The  tea  was  too  strong  for 

one  of  the  visitors  so  Miss  J called  the  boy  and 

told  him  to  bring  up  some  hot  water  ( chisa  manzij  she 
said).  He  understood  that  hot  water  was  wanted  but 
all  the  particulars  being  left  out  he  was  left  to  his  own 
wits  and  resources  to  supply  the  rest. 

Tired  of  waiting,  the  tea  was  drunk  and  all  was 
over  when  the  guests  were  highly  amused  to  see  the 
youth  staggering  into  the  room  with  the  corrugated 
iron  bath  tub  in  which  was  a bucket  or  two  of  hot 
water.  What  else  should  any  one  want  hot  water 
for  ? Poor  boy  ! He  beat  a hasty  retreat  under  the 
fire  of  laughter  which  greeted  his  appearance. 

There  was  a certain  white  man  in  the  country  who 
married  a new  wife  right  out  from  England.  As  he 
had  been  in  the  country  some  years,  he  tried  to  im- 
press on  her  his  excellent  knowledge  of  the  native 
language. 


43 


44  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

The  poor  woman  had  no  end  of  mistakes  like  the 
tea  party  affair  and  the  only  consolation  she  got  from 
her  husband  was,  “ Now  the  fault  is  not  the  boy’s. 
If  you  could  only  talk  to  the  natives  like  I can,  you 
would  have  no  difficulty.” 

There  was  a well  on  the  farm  on  which  they  lived 
and  one  day  the  bucket  dropped  off  and  necessitated 
the  lord  of  the  manor  going  down  himself  to  fish  it  up 
and  tie  it  on  again.  Two  natives  turned  the  crank 
at  the  top  according  to  his  instructions. 

The  job  done,  he  looked  up  and  shouted,  u Panzi, 
up.”  They  knew  what  panzi  meant,  which  was  doicn. 
The  English  they  had  never  heard  before.  So  they 
let  out  a little  more  rope.  “ Panzi,  up,”  shouted  the 
white  man  angrily  as  his  feet  were  covered  with 
water.  They  unwound  another  turn  and  the  water 
came  up  to  his  waist.  Another  yell  caused  another 
turn  and  only  his  chin  was  above  the  cold  waters. 
He  was  now  convinced  that  the  rascals  intended 
murder  and  he  shouted  with  desperate  frenzy, 
“Panzi,  up.” 

One  of  the  natives  now  looked  over  the  curbing 
down  into  the  well  and  said  earnestly  using  the  only 
English  word  he  knew,  “ Boss,  tambo  pelale,”  that 
is,  the  rope  is  finished.  That  was  all  that  saved  him. 

Another  bride  came  to  the  country,  a bonny,  rosy- 
cheeked  English  lassie.  She  was  very  much  troubled 
about  a hut  out  in  their  back  yard.  It  was  the  most 
miserable  pretense  of  a shack,  patched  together  with 
tin  from  old  packing  boxes.  Beside  the  house  serv- 
ants three  or  four  natives  who  were  employed  in  her 
husband’s  store  had  to  sleep  in  it. 

Now  the  majority  of  the  white  people  talk  a kind 


Difficulties  of  an  Unknown  Tongue  45 

of  mixed  jargon  known  as  Kitchen  Kaffir.  It’s  a 
marvellous  jingo  in  which  conjugations  and  declen- 
sions are  thrown  to  the  winds  and  one  word  is  used 
in  at  least  fifty  different  senses  and  the  native  serv- 
ants must  be  clever  enough  to  know  what  is  meant 
rather  than  what  is  said. 

The  word  suka  then,  is  used  for  anything  from 
washing,  bathing,  sweeping,  cleaning,  down:  susa , 
on  the  other  hand,  is  used  in  an  infinite  variety  of 
senses  but  its  primitive  meaning  is  to  tear  down, 
throw  away  or  destroy. 

One  day  the  bride  decided  that  she  would  neglect 
her  own  house  that  day  and  give  her  servants  a 
chance  to  tidy  up  their  own  little  place.  For  being 
new  to  the  country,  she  supposed  the  boys  had 
this  miserable  shanty  where  they  were  all  hud- 
dled together  by  preference,  not  knowing  anything 
better. 

“ Kow,  Sixpence,”  she  began  with  a most  charming 
smile,  “I  no  want  you  work  for  Missis  to-day.  Go 
susa  lo  house  kawena.”  They  were  used  to  white 
folks  so  they  thought  they  knew  what  she  meant. 
The  pretty  bride  wanted  that  miserable  hut  torn 
down.  And  for  once  they  wasted  no  time  and  by 
the  time  their  master  came  back  at  noon,  every  ves- 
tige of  the  shanty  had  disappeared. 

“ It’s  my  fault,”  pleaded  the  little  woman  half  in 
tears.  “ I meant  to  have  said  suka  and  I said  susa.” 

“ The  rascals  knew  well  enough  what  you  meant,” 
he  stormed  angrily. 

“Of  course  it  was  all  a mistake,”  she  said  to  me 
afterwards,  “but  I am  rather  glad  now  I made  it. 
The  old  shanty  did  look  bad.”  I was  glad  too. 


46  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

It  was  one  of  Sweden’s  natural  born  linguists  who 
one  day  overheard  an  engineer  at  a mine  talking  to 
a raw  native  whose  sole  clothing  consisted  of  a five 
cent  piece  of  calico  which  had  been  worn  until  all 
trace  of  the  original  colour  had  been  lost.  The  en- 
gineer said  to  this  boy,  “ Go  to  the  engine,  kangala  lo 
glass  and  come  tell  me  if  there  is  plenty  manzi  in  the 
boiler.”  The  boy  looked  at  him  dazed  ; for  even  the 
native  words  belonged  to  a tribe  600  miles  away  from 
his.  The  engineer  was  in  a rage  and  turning  to  the 
Swede  exclaimed  in  a passion,  u What’s  the  use  of  a 
white  man  spending  twenty  years  to  learn  Kaffir? 
These  natives  don’t  know  their  own  language  when 
they  hear  it ! ” 

It  was  one  of  our  Umtali  missionaries  who  told  a 
native  to  tor  a , take,  a hand  cart  to  some  place.  Kow 
tora  with  the  native  has  the  meaning  of  carrying 
something  on  the  head.  So  when  the  missionary 
went  to  see  why  the  cart  was  not  forthcoming,  he 
found  the  native  vainly  striving  to  get  it  up  onto  his 
head  to  carry  it  that  way. 

There  is  an  exclamation  of  astonishment  which  is 
common  among  the  Khodesian  natives,  “ Maiwe ! ” 
Mother  thou  ! It  is  usually  pronounced,  Ma  ee  way, 
very  like,  My  way.  One  white  man,  new  to  the 
country,  heard  this  without  knowing  its  meaning 
and  supposed  the  native  was  talking  English.  He 
got  fearfully  irritated  over  his  inability  to  make  his 
servant  understand  all  his  wants  and  wishes,  believ- 
ing that  it  was  pure  obstinacy  and  cheek  on  the  boy’s 
part.  So  one  day  as  the  amazed  youth  exclaimed 
u Mai  we,”  he  seized  him  by  the  neck  and  shouted  to 
the  great  amusement  of  the  other  white  man  who 


Difficulties  of  an  Unknown  Tongue  47 

heard  him,  ‘ 1 I’ll  show  you  if  it’s  your  way  or  not.  I 
want  you  to  know  that  you’ve  got  to  do  my  way 
It  was  a Congo  missionary  who  glibly  told  the  na- 
tives the  angels  and  devils  were  all  the  same.  Many 
other  equally  bad  and  even  worse  mistakes  are  made, 
but  in  spite  of  all  the  disadvantages,  the  natives  get 
to  hear  the  Good  News  in  an  intelligible  form  and 
then  they  themselves  scatter  the  seed  far  and  wide  in 
their  own  idioms  which  the  white  men  seldom  fully 
acquire. 


vm 

DOWN  THE  AGES 


THE  hut  was  dark,  smoky,  cold  and  draughty 
within.  Outside,  the  kraal  was  bathed  in 
a flood  of  moonlight  which  lit  up  the  huge 
boulders,  caressed  the  dingy  huts,  concealed  the  lit- 
ter and  rubbish  and  turned  the  dirty  old  kraal  into  a 
fairy-land. 

Yielding  myself  to  the  charm,  I crawled  through 
the  tiny  aperture  called  a door,  wiped  my  eyes  which 
wept  on  account  of  the  smoke  and  gazed  about  me 
with  a thrill  of  admiration.  I wondered  how  it 
would  all  look  from  an  old  fortification  high  up 
among  the  boulders,  a favourite,  secluded  spot  of 
mine  by  day.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  so  I hurried 
down  the  main  path  and  was  soon  hidden  from  view 
among  the  big  rocks  as  I climbed  upward. 

This  place  was  on  a great  flat  rock  with  a stone 
parapet  all  around  it.  The  main  path  from  the  lower 
kraal  passed  at  the  foot  of  its  perpendicular  side  some 
fifty  feet  below.  Indeed  the  top  leaned  a little  over 
the  path. 

The  view  from  here  was  magnificent.  Within 
stone’s  throw  was  an  open  space  where  near  a big 
tree  there  was  a cluster  of  the  little  huts  which 
strongly  resembled  haystacks.  I could  hear  the  hum 
of  voices  which  rose  from  those  huts.  Only  two 
nights  ago  there  was  a murder  in  one  of  them  and 

48 


49 


Down  the  Ages 

yesterday  I attended  the  funeral ! What  a wild, 
frenzied,  hopeless  occasion  that  was  ! Some  day 
these  people  will  get  to  know  the  Comforter  but  to- 
night there  are  only  fearful,  aching  hearts. 

The  view  is  indeed  magnificent ! Over  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley  is  Chiriwadzumbo  which 
with  this  mountain,  Bingahuru,  forms  what  is  known 
as  the  Gateway  to  Inyanga.  Majestic  gateway  of 
God’s  own  making!  I have  always  felt  as  though 
standing  in  His  presence  as  I have  looked  upon  it. 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  I seemed  to  lose  hold  on 
the  present  as  I looked  down  that  deep,  dark  valley 
whose  sides  were  wrapped  in  silver  sheen.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I could  see  as  in  a vision  the  countless 
generations  who  had  passed  adown  it,  see  them  in  a 
procession  4,000  years  long  pass  by  as  on  review.  I 
could  hear  the  merry  laughter  of  their  young  men 
and  maidens,  the  cries  of  the  infants,  the  songs  of 
the  dancers,  the  wailing  of  the  mourners  and  the 
lash  of  the  slave-driver  as  it  fell  on  an  army  of  bare 
and  bleeding  backs,  the  army  of  slaves  who  built  up 
these  thousands  of  ruins  all  over  the  country  here- 
abouts. Who  were  their  masters?  Were  they 
Sabeans  or  Phoenicians  ? And  were  the  slaves  Ne- 
groes or  Asiatics  ? 

We  shall  never  know.  They  are  gone  and  their 
secret  is  buried  with  them.  For  them  have  ceased 
“the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  voice  of  gladness,  the 
voice  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  voice  of  the  bride, 
the  sound  of  the  millstones,  and  the  light  of  the  can- 
dle.” The  luxurious  prince  with  his  harem  of  beau- 
tiful women,  and  the  groaning,  bleeding  slave  have 
these  thousands  of  years  become  common  dust.  The 


50  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

ruins  in  this  beautiful  valley  tell  us  that  they  lived 
here,  but  the  places  once  so  familiar  to  them  now 
know  them  no  more  forever. 

These  same  heavens  declared  the  glory  of  God  to 
them,  and  this  same  starry  firmament  showed  to  them 
His  handiwork.  The  same  rising  sun  spoke  to  them 
of  an  Almighty  Hand  ; this  same  silver  moon  uttered 
its  knowledge  of  a divine  Creator.  Some  of  their 
sages  and  prophets  read  the  heavenly  Book  aright  and 
gave  Him  the  worship  their  hearts  prompted.  Some 
of  them  made  maps  of  the  constellations  and  we  have 
found  them  engraved  on  solid  stone. 

No  doubt  they  had  their  true  prophets  who  warned 
the  people  against  the  vile  Phallic,  Baal  and  Ashtaroth 
worship  introduced  by  the  gold  seekers  of  that  ancient 
time,  priests  like  Melchisedek  without  pedigree,  and 
like  him  also  without  posterity.  Had  they  listened 
to  the  message  of  the  living  God  in  this  probable  land 
of  Havalah,  they  would  not  have  wiped  themselves 
out  by  their  own  gross  excesses  as  it  seems  so  proba- 
ble that  they  did  do. 

Two  men  come  up  the  path  and  their  talking  arrests 
my  train  of  thought  and  brings  me  back  to  the  pres- 
ent. I recognize  one  of  them  as  Chimbadzwa,  the 
king’s  son,  and  the  other  an  older  man.  As  they 
walk  along  deep  in  conversation,  armed  with  knives 
and  spears  as  usual,  they  suddenly  halt  and  turning 
around  look  up  in  my  direction.  It  is  then  that  I 
realize  what  an  unwise  thing  I have  done  in  coming 
out  thus  alone.  But  they  soon  recognize  me  and  go 
their  ways  and  I am  left  alone. 

But  my  train  of  thought  is  broken.  Soon  I must 
leave  this  mountain  where  I have  spent  long  weeks. 


5* 


Down  the  Ages 

Over  yonder  where  the  trees  and  boulders  throw  their 
long,  black  shadows,  the  old  king  is  fighting  his  last 
battle  and  must  lose.  His  has  been  a cruel,  despotic 
reign  for  nearly  forty  years.  O what  scenes  these 
hillsides  have  witnessed ! The  very  stones  cry  out 
against  the  bloodshed  and  murder  they  have  seen  ! 

But  the  king’s  warfare  is  near  its  end.  And  when 
the  end  comes,  they  will  bury  him  secretly  and  then 
move  away  and  leave  his  spirit,  as  they  believe,  to 
wander  about  the  old  haunts  undisturbed  by  any  liv- 
ing man. 

The  silence  of  the  night  will  then  only  be  broken 
by  the  uncanny  hoot  of  the  owl,  the  mournful  wail  of 
the  hyena,  the  startling  bark  of  some  huge  baboon  or 
the  piercing  cry  of  the  leopard. 

As  the  old  king  has  lived  so  will  he  die  and  thus 
will  he  be  buried.  But  for  his  people  there  are  bet- 
ter things  in  store.  Aye,  for  them  already  “the  sun 
of  righteousness  has  arisen  with  healing  in  his  wings.’ 7 


IX 

SHAKENI 


“ BEAT  SCOTT ! ” exclaimed  Harriet,  sitting 

D ^ bolt  upright,  “ there’s  a snake  as  bigas 

V*.*#  your  head.” 

“ Where?  ” I asked  sleepily  rousing  up. 

“Why,  it  glided  just  over  the  corner  of  the  rug 
there,  ” she  replied  with  a grimace  of  horror. 

“Just  you  keep  your  eye  on  it,  sister,  will  you, 
while  I finish  my  nap,”  I replied  as  I sank  back.  It 
was  a fearfully  hot  day  and  my  friend,  Miss  Johnson, 
and  I had  walked  six  miles  that  morning  to  reach 
Shakeni’ s kraal. 

At  noon  we  had  had  our  lunch  disturbed  by  discov- 
ering a snake  in  the  tree  over  our  heads  so  that  famil- 
iarity was  breeding  contempt.  We  were  so  tired  and 
the  day  was  so  drowsy  that  in  spite  of  snakes  and 
the  fact  that  our  rug  was  spread  over  nothing  softer 
than  a ledge  of  rock,  we  soon  dosed  off  for  a cat  nap. 

And  then  Shakeni  came. 

Not  long  after  I had  first  moved  into  Hartzell  Villa, 
I saw  a ludicrous  figure  going  along  the  wagon  road 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  She  wore  a man’s  sailor 
hat  and  a lot  of  old  European  clothes  which  were  a 
decided  misfit.  She  was  followed  by  two  little  girls 
who  looked  like  boys. 

Some  native  men  were  digging  near  the  house  and 
I asked  them  who  the  girl  was.  They  only  smiled 
significantly  to  each  other  and  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

52 


Shakeni 


53 


Just  tlien  the  apparition  being  embarrassed  by  the 
eyes  focused  on  her,  broke  into  a run,  and  as  the  hat 
would  not  stay  on  her  head,  she  snatched  it  off  and 
carried  it  in  her  hand.  We  all  laughed  heartily. 

Two  or  three  days  after  that  she  came  back  and  I 
met  her.  She  wanted  to  spend  the  night  so  I took 
her  and  the  two  little  girls  into  the  house.  They  were 
all  three  dreadfully  dirty  but  I was  fishing  for  the 
Master  so  I kept  them  until  the  next  afternoon.  I 
couldn’t  talk  with  them  so  I taught  Shakeni  to  sew  a 
pretty  pink  pillow,  the  first  sewing  she  ever  did. 

Jonas  regarded  them  with  undisguised  disgust. 
The  two  children,  Marusinyenyi  and  Mutisiswa,  were 
particularly  dirty  and  unattractive  girls  of  about  ten 
or  eleven  years  of  age. 

They  came  again  and  stayed  two  or  three  days  and 
I showed  Shakeni  how  to  sew  patchwork.  She  was 
so  delighted.  As  she  was  a girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty, 
I asked,  “Where  is  your  husband?”  She  smiled 
charmingly  and  replied,  “I  have  no  husband.” 
Another  woman  said  the  same  thing,  you  remember. 

As  she  departed  on  that  occasion,  Jonas  came  in  an 
inch  taller  from  conscious  superiority. 

“O  these  Manika  women!”  he  exclaimed,  “how 
dirty  they  are.  Look  at  the  difference  between 
Shakeni’ s hands  and  mine  ! These  women  never  wash 
their  hands.  Ugh!”  With  which  explosion  he 
turned  to  the  kitchen. 

That  evening  I said  to  him,  “Why  isn’t  Shakeni 
married?  ” 

Jonas  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively. 

“ Why  isn't  she  married  ? ” I persisted.  The  ques- 
tion had  to  be  repeated  several  times  before  he  re- 


54  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

luctantly  answered,  “ Because  she  cut  her  upper  teeth 
first.” 

I was  sure  my  ears  deceived  me,  but  he  went  on  to 
explain. 

“ In  our  country  it  is  very,  very  bad  to  cut  the  up- 
per teeth  first.  Do  your  children  ever  do  so?”  I 
had  to  frankly  admit  that  I did  not  know  which  teeth 
usually  came  first,  and  that  it  made  no  difference  to  us. 

“ Well,  it  does  tows,”  replied  Jonas  emphatically. 
“ A child  that  cuts  the  upper  teeth  first  is  bewitched 
and  it  is  the  custom  of  our  people  to  bury  such  a 
child  alive.” 

I asked  if  some  other  mode  of  cutting  short  the 
child’s  earthly  career  would  not  do  just  as  well. 
Jonas  was  horrified  at  the  suggestion.  Any  other 
method  would  be  cruelty. 

“But,”  said  Jonas  with  a sigh,  “I  suppose  her 
mother  loved  her  baby  and  did  not  want  to  do  it, — 
anyhow  she  didn’t  (his  gesture  expressed  his  opinion 
that  such  was  a pity),  and  now  there  isn’t  a man  in 
the  country  would  marry  her.” 

“ Why  not?  ” I asked. 

“ Because  he  would  die,”  said  Jonas  emphatically. 

“ How  soon  would  he  die  ? As  soon  as  they  were 
married  ? ” I asked. 

Jonas  became  cautious.  “He  might  and  then  he 
might  not.” 

“Well,  would  he  die  in  a week?”  Jonas  was 
more  cautious.  We  are  all  bold  in  setting  forth  glit- 
tering generalities  but  to  get  down  to  a specific  case 
is  another  thing. 

“Would  he  die  in  a month  then?”  Jonas  was 
nettled. 


Shakeni 


55 


“Don’t  you  see,  Missis,”  he  exclaimed  in  an  ex- 
asperated tone,  “ he  might  die  at  once,  he  might  die 
in  a week,  he  might  die  in  a month.  Or  he  might 
live  years  and  they  might  have  children  and  the 
children  might  grow  up  but  sooner  or  later  he  would 
surely  die.” 

“I’m  sure  he  would,”  I retorted  laughing  heartily. 
“ Did  you  ever  know  a man  who  married  a woman 
who  didn’t  die,  Jonas?” 

But  Jonas  refused  to  discuss  such  a serious  ques- 
tion further. 

And  this  was  the  girl,  a remarkable  beauty,  at 
large. 

Soon  Jonas  would  be  leaving  me  and  I had  made 
this  visit  to  the  kraal  to  get  this  girl  to  come  and 
live  with  me.  Jonas  had  previously  approached  her 
on  the  same  subject. 

I was  surprised  as  I found  her  in  the  kraal  to  see 
how  neat  and  clean  she  was.  And  her  two  sisters 
were  also  cleaner.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  how  they 
adored  this  big  sister  of  theirs. 

Her  mother  also  welcomed  us  most  graciously  and 
the  three  days  spent  in  the  kraal  were  pleasant  ones 
if  the  nights  were  not  and  I returned  to  Hartzell 
Villa  with  a light  step  and  a lighter  heart.  At 
last  I was  to  have  a native  girl  to  live  with  me  ! 

I found  Shakeni  a treasure,  indeed  ! She  had  been 
an  outcast  from  babyhood  and  responded  to  the  love 
and  attention  I gave  her  as  a flower  responds  to  the 
sun. 

She  was  remarkably  quick  to  learn  either  books, 
sewing,  or,  what  was  harder  yet,  me.  My  grasp  of 
the  language  was  as  yet  very  weak.  I managed  to 


56  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

use  quite  a few  words  but  I had  not  been  able  to  as 
yet  get  hold  of  the  grammatical  construction. 

Shakeni  soon  learned  what  I wanted  to  say  and  to 
repeat  it  after  me  to  the  women  and  girls  of  the 
kraals  where  we  live. 

For  nine  months  she  was  with  me  day  and  night 
whether  I was  at  home  or  in  the  kraals,  except  one 
night  when  her  mother  sent  for  her  to  go  to  Penha- 
langa  to  see  a sick  uncle.  Afterwards,  I bitterly  re- 
gretted allowing  her  to  go  there.  I did  not  know  as 
much  of  native  ways  as  I did  later. 

Shakeni  learned  to  do  what  house  work  there  was 
to  do  and  did  it  well.  She  learned,  as  I said,  to  read 
quickly  and  had  gone  through  the  Primer  in  nine 
months’  time — and  a Chikaranga  Primer  is  of  neces- 
sity much  harder  than  the  English  one. 

She  learned  to  sew,  to  make  her  own  clothes,  al- 
though she  did  not  do  the  fine  sewing  Marita,  Gumba 
and  the  other  girls  did  later  on. 

Had  the  shadow  of  the  curse  not  been  on  her, 
Shakeni  would  have  been  undoubtedly  our  first  Bible 
woman.  That  was  what  I hoped  but  it  was  not  to  be. 
That  honour  was  Marita’s  who  certainly  deserved 
some  honour  after  walking  six  hundred  miles  to  come 
to  our  school. 

But  Shakeni  was  my  first  love  among  the  Manika 
girls  and  women.  She  was  the  most  beautiful  of 
them  all  and  the  most  affectionate  as  well,  though 
this  may  have  been  because  I was  the  first  person 
who  did  not  consider  her  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit. 

And  as  I look  back,  I feel  that  the  work  of  the  five 
years  would  not  have  been  in  vain  had  I reached  no 
other  girl  than  Shakeni. 


X 

HER  FIRST  VACATION 


SHAKEN!  sat  on  the  front  door-step  under  the 
heavily  laden  passion-vine  which  formed  into 
an  arch  over  her  head  and  then  trailed  grace- 
fully along  the  front  veranda  of  Hartzell  Villa. 
She  had  finished  her  morning’s  lesson,  a chapter  of 
Matthew  in  the  vernacular,  but  it  was  evident  her 
mind  was  not  on  her  books.  Still  her  listlessness 
might  have  been  because  it  was  a very  hot  morning. 

Now  she  sat  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun  twirling  a 
corner  of  her  robe  nervously  and  watching  her 
teacher’s  darning-needle  pass  in  and  out  of  a gar- 
ment which  was  almost  hopelessly  worn  out. 

It  was  Jim,  so  Jonas  said,  who  had  one  day  been 
washing  with  the  other  boys  at  the  river,  and  who 
held  up  a garment  of  Mr.  Springer’s  and  said  in  dis- 
gust, “ Look  at  that ! Is  that  fit  for  a white  man  to 
wear  f Why  doesn’t  he  give  that  to  a boy  I ” 

“This  is  a sample  of  the  luxuries  we  missionaries 
live  in,”  thought  the  teacher,  and  she  smiled  invol- 
untarily at  the  thought. 

Shakeni  saw  the  smile  and  gathered  up  courage, 
and  with  an  attempt  to  speak  off-handed  said, 
“When  this  moon  is  finished,  I am  going  to  the 
kraal.” 

The  teacher  was  not  at  all  surprised.  She  had 
57 


58  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

read  it  in  the  girl  for  the  past  month  so  she  merely 
said,  “ You  are  going  home  to  dig  your  field  ? ” 

“Yes,”  she  answered  with  a sigh  of  relief.  And 
now  that  the  dreaded  ordeal  of  telling  the  news  was 
over,  she  hastened  into  the  house  to  find  some  work. 

The  missionary  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  the 
work  fell  into  her  lap  as  she  unconsciously  watched 
the  sunlight  gleaming  among  the  trellised  vines. 
Her  mind  was  on  her  one  girl  pupil  in  the  land 
where  girls  are  so  hard  to  get.  It  seemed  as  if  her 
heart  would  break  to  have  this  beautiful  girl  go 
back  to  her  old  life.  She  had  been  more  than  a 
pupil ; she  had  been  a constant  companion  day  and 
night  for  eight  months. 

However,  a change  had  recently  come  over  the  girl 
and  the  teacher  knew  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  try  and 
force  her  to  stay.  She  must  go.  But  the  seed  had 
been  sown  and  it  surely  would  bring  forth  fruit  in 
time. 

The  crickets  in  the  tall  grass  chirped  merrily 
and  the  birds  whistled  a lively  tune.  “Yes,”  she 
said  to  herself  softly,  “it  is  best  that  she  should  go. 
She  is  in  His  care.  Our  times  are  in  His  hands.” 
And  with  that  comfort,  the  load  was  lifted  from  her 
heart  and  she  took  up  her  darning. 

That  evening,  the  frugal  supper  ended  and  the 
dishes  washed,  Shakeni  went  into  the  study  for  the 
usual  evening  chat.  As  she  set  the  lamp  down  on 
the  little  home-made  table,  her  heart  smote  her. 
How  she  would  miss  these  daily  talks  during  which 
there  had  been  so  much  mutual  instruction  ! She 
had  learned  a little  English  and  a great  deal  about 
the  wide,  wide  world  whose  horizon  had  heretofore 


Her  First  Vacation 


59 


not  extended  beyond  Maslionaland.  And  she  had 
taught  her  teacher  much  about  her  own  language 
and  her  people. 

What  a difference  between  the  neat,  clean,  cozy 
study  and  the  dark,  dirty,  cheerless  hut  which  she 
would  occupy  a week  hence.  She  loathed  the  life  of 
the  kraal.  Why  then  was  she  going  back  ? Alas  ! 
The  curse  of  a heathen  superstition  was  upon  her 
and  she  must  go  back  and  bear  its  blight. 

Shakeni  was  no  ordinary  girl  and  she  loved  the 
bright  and  the  beautiful  passionately.  She  was 
keenly  sensitive  to  the  coloured  walls  of  Hartzell 
Villa,  and  the  bright  calicos  which  converted  old  pack- 
ing and  provision  boxes  into  useful  furniture.  She 
loved  the  pretty  cards  which  decorated  the  walls; 
she  had  liked  the  quiet  and  had  enjoyed  the  learn- 
ing. However,  the  curse  was  upon  her:  she  must 
g°- 

1 1 Vow,”  said  her  teacher,  “ when  you  get  back  to 
the  kraal,  I want  you  to  gather  the  little  children 
around  you  and  teach  them  the  things  you  have 
learned  here,  especially  your  two  sisters,  Marusin- 
yenyi  and  Mutisiswa.  I want  you  to  teach  them  to 
sing  these  hymns,  teach  them  to  pray,  read  to  them 
out  of  this  little  book  of  Matthew.  If  you  don’t  you 
will  soon  forget  all  you  ever  knew.  Will  you  do  it  ? ” 

“Yes,  Missis,”  she  replied  softly. 

Monday  morning  came  and  she  was  up  at  4 : 30. 
It  had  been  arranged  that  Charley  Potter  should  take 
her  place  so  Charley  came  up  early  to  get  breakfast 
but  she  insisted  in  setting  the  table  for  her  teacher 
herself  for  the  last  time  and  to  cook  that  last  meal. 
Just  before  it  was  ready,  she  went  into  the  study  and 


60  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

said,  “Can’t  we  have  prayers  before  breakfast  to- 
day? I want  to  sing  once  more  before  I go.”  For 
she  wanted  to  get  on  the  trail  before  the  sun  was  hot. 

Family  prayers  that  morning  were  more  like  a 
funeral  service. 

Then  she  was  ready  to  go.  Her  bundle  of  clothes 
was  wrapped  in  a gayly  coloured  blanket.  In  this 
bundle  were  many  garments  which  she  had  made 
with  her  own  hands  and  among  other  treasures  was  a 
patchwork  quilt  she  had  sewed  herself. 

Skillfully  balancing  her  bundle  on  her  head,  grace- 
fully pulling  the  loose,  gayly  coloured  cloth  over  her 
shoulders,  she  slowly  descended  the  steps  and  down 
the  front  yard  to  where  the  path  joined  the  road. 

Here  she  stopped  and  looked  back  at  the  white 
woman  standing  under  the  passion- vine.  It  was  only 
for  an  instant ; then  she  turned  her  head  and  walked 
rapidly  northward  while  the  lone  white  woman 
stood  in  the  doorway  until  the  girl  disappeared  from 
view. 

Some  day  she  would  come  back  but  it  would  not  be 
for  long  years  in  which  everything,  most  of  all  her- 
self, should  be  changed. 


XI 

FOR  CHRISTIAN  BURIAL 


it 


M 


ISSIS,  there  is  a mukadzi  (woman)  who 
wishes  to  see  you.” 


“ What  does  she  want  ? ” I asked. 


“I  do  not  know,”  Samuel  replied.  So  I got  up 
from  the  typewriter  where  I was  copying  sheets  of 
dictionary  and  went  down  stairs.  There  in  the 
front  yard  sat  a dejected,  untidy  figure  of  a woman 
whom  at  first  I did  not  recognize  until  she  got  up 
and  came  towards  me  when  I exclaimed,  u Shakeni  ! 
Why  did  you  not  come  right  up  to  my  study  ? Come 
now.” 

What  a change  in  my  beautiful  girl ! Who  would 
have  dreamed  that  this  fat,  sloppy,  dirty,  ragged, 
bedraggled  woman  was  the  bright,  bonny,  graceful 
girl  who  had  gone  down  the  walk  and  away  to  her 
kraal  from  Hartzell  Villa  three  years  before!  I 
groaned  inwardly  at  the  change  as  I led  the  way 
back  to  my  study  where  I seldom  received  native 
women  from  the  kraals,  one  reason  being  that  the 
most  of  them  were  deathly  afraid  to  climb  the  stairs. 

Shakeni  dropped  down  on  the  floor  with  the  ex- 
clamation, “Ndizwo  is  dead.”  I had  forgotten  the 
child’s  name  and  did  not  at  first  understand  who  was 
meant  so  she  repeated,  “ Ndizwo  is  dead.  ” Ndizwo 
was  her  child  and  the  cause  of  her  absence  from  the 
mission  all  these  years.  Ndizwo  was  part  white. 


61 


62  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

"We  did  not  know  his  father  but  Metapudzwa  told  me 
he  was  a half-breed  transport  rider  at  Penhalanga. 

I was  glad,  frankly,  that  the  little  fellow  was  dead. 
He  had  ever  been  an  Ishmael.  From  the  first  that  I 
saw  him,  he  seemed  to  wear  an  inveterate  scowl  and 
have  an  aversion  for  every  one  except  his  grand- 
mother. Did  the  bitterness  of  his  mother’ s soul  as  she 
rebelled  against  the  curse  which  had  denied  her  legal 
wifehood  like  other  women  and  had  made  her  an 
outcast  of  whom  her  hard  stepfather  made  gain, 
enter  into  the  child  and  poison  his  unborn  nature  I 
It  certainly  looked  like  it.  I never  saw  a child  who 
seemed  so  solitary  and  so  impregnated  with  hatred  as 
that  child.  We  had  often  spoken  of  what  a hard, 
fierce  fight  he  would  have  in  life.  And  now  he  was 
gone.  Truly  I was  glad. 

And  I told  Shakeni  so.  I told  her  I was  glad  the 
little  fellow  had  been  taken  by  a merciful  heavenly 
Father  where  he  would  not  have  to  bear  and  suffer  all 
that  he  would  have  had  to  meet  had  he  lived. 

Then  she  told  me  why  she  had  come.  She  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  him  buried  after  the  heathen 
fashion  so  she  had  come  to  beg  a box  and  to  know  if 
he  might  not  be  buried  up  in  the  churchyard  by  her 
sister,  Marusinyenyi,  whose  death  and  burial  had  af- 
fected Shakeni  greatly. 

Some  eighteen  months  previously,  the  two  little 
girls  who  used  to  run  about  the  country  with  Shakeni 
had  come  to  me  and  said  they  wanted  to  stay  and  go  to 
school.  They  had  developed  into  quite  young  ladies. 
Philip  told  us  afterwards  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Mutisiswa  at  the  kraal  and  had  told  her  he 
wanted  to  marry  her.  She  admitted  that  she  was 


For  Christian  Burial 


63 

very  willing.  He  then  informed  her  that  she  must 
come  to  school  and  study.  She  dropped  her  head, 
twisted  her  robe  and  said  she  did  not  want  to  go  to 
school.  He  thereupon  informed  her  that  she  could 
do  as  she  liked  but  that  he  did  not  propose  to  have 
any  heathen  girl  for  his  wife.  So  she  came.  She  was 
only  a foster-sister  of  Shakeni  and  Marusinyenyi,  but 
the  two  girls  were  inseparable,  so  they  both  came. 

Marusinyenyi  died  a year  later  of  dropsy  but  her 
death  was  a beautiful  one.  She  knew  she  was  dying 
and  told  Mutisiswa  that  she  could  see  the  angels  in 
the  room  so  she  was  not  afraid  to  die.  She  was 
buried  beside  Kaduku  in  the  native  churchyard  at 
Old  Umtali,  and  we  planted  flowers  as  an  emblem  of 
the  resurrection  on  their  graves. 

And  now  Shakeni  wanted  this  son  of  her  sorrow  to 
be  laid  beside  the  little  sister  whom  she  had  loved  so 
dearly.  So  I gave  her  a box,  asked  Mr.  Spears  to 
line  it  with  white  cloth  which  he  did  gladly  and  they 
took  it  back  to  the  kraal  for  the  body. 

They  did  not  get  back  until  sundown  so  we  had  to 
wait  till  morning  for  the  service,  for  Mr.  Springer 
was  away  that  day  and  did  not  return  until  late  Sat- 
urday night. 

Sunday  morning  dawned  a perfect  Easter  day. 
The  bell  rang  and  we  gathered  in  the  chapel  with  all 
the  boys  and  girls  for  the  funeral  of  the  poor  baby. 
There  was  the  grandmother  with  dry  eyes  and  break- 
ing heart.  But  for  the  love  of  Christ  which  had  sent 
Dr.  Gurney  out  there,  she  herself  would  have  died 
in  awful,  lingering  agony  long  ago.  There  was 
Mutisiswa  sobbing  not  only  for  the  child  but  more 
for  the  memory  of  the  dear  girl  for  whose  death  she 


64  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

had  been  almost  unconsolable.  There  were  likewise 
all  the  others  of  the  family  and  every  heart  was 
stirred  as  we  sang  softly  a Christian  hymn.  It  was 
the  same  hymn  we  had  sung  at  Keduku’s  funeral 
when  we  had  all  wept  together.  How  we  had  loved 
that  boy ! 

As  the  baby  had  died  the  day  before,  we  did  not 
open  the  box  but  it  was  covered  with  white  cloth  and 
strewed  with  flowers.  The  service  was  brief  for 
there  was  little  to  say  and  soon  we  stood  around 
the  open  grave  and  again  heard  the  solemn  words, 
“ Ashes  to  ashes  ; dust  to  dust.” 

Then  bowing  his  head,  the  preacher  prayed  aloud 
that  the  mother  and  other  relatives  and  all  there  as- 
sembled might  come  to  know  the  Saviour  of  men  who 
alone  is  Life  and  the  Eesurrection,  that  believing  on 
Him  they  might  never  die. 

Another  year  went  by  and  Shakeni  came  to  me 
again.  This  time  she  had  another  baby  on  her  back 
and  a smile  on  her  face.  She  came  to  tell  me  that 
she  was  really  married  now  to  a native  of  Cape  Colony 
and  that  as  her  husband  was  away  from  her  on  the 
road  most  of  the  time,  he  had  given  his  consent  to 
her  coming  back  to  the  mission  to  the  Girls’  School. 

Later  on  while  at  Broken  Hill,  I got  a letter  from 
her  telling  me  of  her  entire  change  of  life  and  how 
happy  she  was. 

u Sow  your  rice  upon  the  waters,”  said  the  oriental 
sage.  “It  will  disappear  from  sight  and  lodge  in 
the  black  mud  below.  But  it  isn’t  lost ; it  will  not 
rot.  Leave  it  in  God’s  hands  and  after  many  days 
thou  shalt  find  it  again  and  reap  a rich  harvest.” 


XII 


OUR  LAST  NIGHT— TREKKING  BY  OX  WAGON 

AS  long  as  we  live,  we  will  not  cease  to  bless 
the  DeWitts  for  that  trip  when  we  were  only 
two  weeks  new  to  the  country.  We  were 
gone  a month  and  no  one  can  estimate  the  benefit  of 
such  a trip  to  a new  missionary. 

And  when,  so  soon  after  that,  the  cattle  sickness 
broke  out  and  destroyed  our  herd,  we  thanked  God 
more  than  ever  that  we  had  had  that  never-to-be-for- 
gotten evangelistic  tour  in  an  ox  wagon,  an  American 
make,  by  the  way.  But  it  was  an  experience  we 
never  wished  to  have  repeated.  It  came  in  its  own 
time  and  had  its  own  place.  For  of  all  the  tedious 
modes  of  travel  we  have  in  Africa,  the  ox  wagon  is 
the  worst.  How  many  times  on  that  trip  I walked 
after  the  wagon  expecting  it  every  minute  to  be  over- 
turned ! 

For  nearly  a month  now,  we  had  journeyed  up  and 
down  the  rugged  mountainous  country  of  Southern 
Bhodesia.  We  had  left  the  wagon  at  outspans  and 
visited  kraals  just  off  the  road  whenever  they  were 
not  more  than  two  or  three  miles  away.  Here  we 
had  held  services  in  English  for  want  of  something 
better.  To  be  sure  the  natives  could  not  understand 
us.  But  it  roused  their  curiosity  and  led  many  of 
them  to  find  out  later  more  about  us.  It  was  four 
years  later  when  Benjamin  told  me  that  he  was  in  his 

65 


66  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

father’s  kraal  when  we  visited  it  and  that  that  one 
visit  gave  him  a sense  of  knowing  us. 

Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  road  was  bad,  the  oxen 
slow,  the  driver  very  inefficient  and  the  covered 
wagon  springless,  we  rode  very  little,  as  our  browned 
faces  and  blistered  noses  testified. 

We  had  also  wept  briny  tears  over  the  smoking 
little  camp-fires  and  had  eaten  with  relish  the  badly 
cooked  food  which  was  liberally  seasoned  with  sand 
and  dirt  by  the  incessant  winds. 

By  night  we  had  climbed  into  the  wagon  whose 
big,  canvass-covered  top  afforded  protection  from 
the  wild  beasts  and  from  the  biting  cold,  and  the 
high  winds  which  increased  in  violence  with  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun  and  which  howled  around  the  tent 
flaps.  Sometimes  the  wind  would  die  down  near 
morning  and  then  as  we  emerged  from  our  cramped 
quarters,  we  found  every  leaf  and  blade  covered  with 
a silver  filigree  of  hoarfrost  beautiful  to  behold. 

That  last  day  we  had  all  tramped  many  miles  in 
dust  several  inches  deep  under  a burning  sun,  the 
men  far  in  advance  of  the  wagon  and  Mrs.  DeWitt 
and  myself  in  the  rear.  What  a relief  when  we  came 
to  the  roaring,  rushing  Oodzani  River  where  we 
bathed  our  dusty  faces  and  lay  down  under  the 
shadow  of  a large  tree  while  our  last  meal  was  being 
prepared,  and  gazed  unseeingly  at  the  tall,  cool,  green, 
lush  reeds  and  rushes  growing  rank  and  tall  in  the 
shallow  pools  near  the  shore  and  on  a small  island. 

Our  minds  were  occupied  with  the  thought  that 
the  trip  was  now  over  and  on  the  morrow,  we  would 
all  of  us  settle  down  to  regular  work.  We  discussed, 
but  with  languor,  the  two  bridal  couples  who  were 


Our  Last  Night — Trekking  by  Ox  Wagon  67 

also  outspanned  near  us.  They  were  going  back  to 
the  Dutch  Settlement  in  the  north  from  which  we 
had  just  come.  Their  double  wedding  was  still  the 
talk  of  Inyanga. 

At  five  o’clock  the  oxen  have  had  their  feed  and 
so  have  we.  So  we  inspan  the  sixteen  oxen  and  then 
get  into  the  wagon  with  dread  for  we  have  to  cross 
at  the  Slippery  Drift  where  many  an  ox,  a horse  or  a 
mule  has  been  drowned.  The  wagon,  a springless 
one,  you  remember,  jolts  down  over  the  rocks  into 
the  eddying,  foaming,  swirling  river  where  the  oxen 
flounder  desperately  in  striving  to  find  firm  foothold 
on  the  slippery  rock  bottom. 

The  men  assure  us  women  that  there  isn’t  the 
slightest  danger  but  even  as  they  speak,  big,  black 
Blessman  slips,  staggers  and  goes  under.  The  driver 
yells  frantically,  cracking  his  long  whip  in  the  air 
over  the  backs  of  the  others  and  soon  Blessman  is  on 
his  feet  again. 

Almost  immediately  Bupee,  a big,  ugly  black 
brute  but  one  of  our  strongest  and  best,  goes  down 
while  his  yoke-mate  struggles  and  splashes  in  his  ef- 
forts lest  he  too  be  dragged  under  by  the  swift  cur- 
rent, but  they  also  right  themselves  amid  the  fierce 
yells  of  the  driver  and  leader. 

The  crossing  takes  but  a few  minutes  but  it  is  dan- 
gerous and  exciting.  As  we  pull  up  the  bank,  we  see 
the  two  Boer  couples  on  the  other  side,  standing 
under  a tree.  The  brides  are  mere  lassies  of  sixteen, 
short,  plump  with  fair  round  faces  framed  in  pink 
calico  sunbonnets.  The  lads,  scarcely  in  their 
twenties,  are  large,  stalwart  fellows  in  gray  flannel 
shirts,  stout  breeches,  high  boots,  “ Boss-of-the- 


68  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

plains”  hats  and  the  inevitable  ammunition  belts 
around  their  waists. 

They  make  an  ideal  pastoral  picture  as  they  stand 
there  close  to  the  rushing,  swirling  waters,  each  little 
bride  with  one  hand  in  a large  brown  one.  As  we 
turn  the  bend  in  the  road,  we  see  the  fingers  inter- 
twine more  closely  and  the  pink  sunbonnets  rest 
lightly  against  the  gray-flanneled  shoulders. 

Our  hearts  soften  into  tender,  hearty  blessings  on 
this  u Love’s  young  dream.”  A few  years  more  and 
these  blooming,  rosy -cheeked  girls  will  be  weary, 
haggard,  prematurely  old  women  from  hard,  out- 
door toil,  poverty,  loneliness  and  a big  family. 

A ripping,  creaking,  crashing,  tearing  sound  in- 
terrupts our  thoughts  and  causes  us  to  start  up  in 
fright  and  dismay  as  an  overhanging  limb  catches 
the  wagon  tent  and  leaves  it  almost  demolished.  We 
then  learn  that  our  driver  got  hold  of  some  beer  at 
Mtasa’s  and  is  now  half  drunk.  This  impresses  the 
men  that  they  must  now  walk  near  the  span  and  we 
women  are  too  nervous  to  stay  in  the  wagon,  so  we 
get  out  also. 

A walk  of  a mile  or  two  in  the  moonlight  calms 
our  nerves  and  raises  our  spirits,  though  we  are 
somewhat  annoyed  at  first  by  a fantastically  dressed 
native,  the  latest  addition  to  our  party,  who  persists 
in  barely  keeping  off  our  heels  until  we  stop  and 
make  him  pass  by.  His  is  a grotesque  figure  often 
pictured  but  seldom  seen,  a wandering  minstrel. 
As  he  walks  along  in  the  moonlight  carrying  a native 
organ  and  tambourine  on  which  he  plays  as  he  walks, 
the  one  long  feather  in  his  hair,  his  appearance  is  al- 
most uncanny. 


Our  Last  Night — Trekking  by  Ox  Wagon  69 

The  last  donga,  or  ravine,  is  reached  and  we  see 
the  lights  of  home  but  we  cannot  reach  there  till  to- 
morrow. On  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  five  miles 
away  we  see  a single  light  at  Old  Umtali.  We  set 
the  freak  to  work  getting  wood  for  a fire. 

At  ten  o’clock  the  wagon  comes  up  and  as  there  is 
no  wind,  we  wrap  ourselves  in  rugs  and  blankets  and 
draw  around  the  glowing  fire  on  the  other  side  of 
which  are  the  native  boys.  We  are  glad  and  sorry  it 
is  our  last  of  so  many  pleasant  evenings  together. 

The  boys  put  on  a big  pot  of  beans  to  cook  for 
themselves  and  we  give  them  tinned  beef  to  put  into 
it.  They  crouch  down  warming  their  hands  and  re- 
lating to  each  other  the  incidents  of  the  trip  while 
we  drink  tea  and  munch  roasted  peanuts  hot  from 
the  ashes. 

Big  Jim,  the  cook,  now  gets  his  mbita,  or  native 
piano,  and  begins  to  play  the  national  dancing  tune. 
The  freak  joins  him  and  they  begin  to  sing.  At  first 
they  croon  softly  in  a weird,  minor  strain.  Now 
they  start  singing  responsively  to  the  perfect  accord 
of  their  instruments.  The  song  waxes  faster  and 
louder  and  their  bodies  sway  rhythmically  as  they 
crouch  there  on  their  haunches. 

We  are  now  lost  to  their  world  as  memory  takes 
them  back  to  the  far-away  scenes  of  their  childhood 
and  as  they  sing  the  same  song  which  their  ancestors 
have  sung  these  hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  of 
years. 

The  singing  increases  in  speed  and  volume  until 
Big  Jim,  no  longer  able  to  control  himself,  springs  to 
his  feet  and  executes  a vigorous  dance. 

As  he  ceases,  we  all  applaud  and  the  hungry  boys 


70  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

make  an  equally  vigorous  attack  on  the  underdone 
beans  and  bully  beef. 

We  get  up,  unwind  our  rugs  and  blankets  and 
crawl  up  into  our  bed  on  wheels  where  little  Vivian 
lies  in  her  hammock  long  since  asleep. 

It  is  just  the  hour  of  midnight  when  at  last  we  get 
our  weary  bodies  under  the  warm  blankets  while  the 
frogs  in  the  neighbouring  donga  hoarsely  croak  us  to 
sleep.  And  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  tropical  sky, 
over  our  heads,  there  gleams  and  sparkles  the  beauti- 
ful Southern  Cross. 


XIII 


IN  THE  HUNDI  VALLEY 

ALL  that  morning  we  made  our  way  along  the 
bleak  Inyanga  Heights  in  the  teeth  of  a bit- 
ing wind  which  nipped  us  to  the  bone.  As 
we  passed  the  old  sheep  kraal,  we  were  reminded  of 
that  night  five  years  ago  when  Mrs.  DeAVitt  and  I 
walked  along  that  dark  road  where  we  had  to  feel 
our  way  with  our  feet,  carrying  the  baby. 

The  wagon  had  got  stuck  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill 
and  we  had  been  sent  on  ahead.  The  brief  twilight 
had  faded  and  black  night  had  set  in.  Being  over 
7, 000  feet  above  the  sea,  the  night  was  cutting  cold. 
We  had  some  matches  so  we  gathered  a few  ferns  and 
started  a fire.  There  was  no  wood  on  all  that  vast 
plain  but  we  knew  there  were  plenty  of  lions  and 
leopards.  So  we  had  kept  up  the  fire  until  we  had 
cleared  a large  space  beyond  which  we  dare  not  ven- 
ture. It  was  already  nine  o’clock  so  we  decided  that 
all  we  could  do  was  to  walk  back  to  meet  the  wagon 
which  we  did. 

Now  the  sun  was  shining  but  even  so  our  hands 
and  faces  ached  with  the  cold.  As  we  rode  along 
the  old  wagon  road  side  by  side,  many  other  reminis- 
cences came  up  before  our  minds.  Here  was  where 
we  turned  off  to  see  the  Pungwe  Falls.  Mrs.  DeWitt 
and  I were  appointed  to  view  them  from  the  top 

71 


72  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

while  the  men  got  a nearer  and  better  view  from  a 
rather  perillous  position. 

And  just  over  that  deep  gully  yonder  was  where 
the  monstrous  big  baboon  appeared,  and  seating  him- 
self on  a great  ledge  of  rock,  shook  his  fist  at  us  two 
women. 

We  were  now  bound  for  the  Hundi  Valley  of  which 
we  had  never  heard  until  the  day  before.  We  were 
anxious  to  reach  it  by  night  lest  our  native  boys  die 
of  the  cold  as  so  many  others  had  done  up  there  on 
those  bleak,  unprotected  plains.  Moreover  we 
wanted  to  visit  the  valley  in  order  to  carry  the  Gos- 
pel to  yet  another  part  where  it  had  not  gone 
before. 

But  in  turning  aside  to  once  more  view  the  falls, 
we  missed  our  trail  and  went  astray.  For  a mile  or 
two,  we  followed  a narrow  ridge  of  land  some  1,500 
feet  above  the  surrounding  country.  On  the  one  side 
of  it  was  the  magnificent  Pungwe  Gorge  through 
which  the  river  roared  and  seethed  and  boiled  so 
furiously  as  to  have  invested  itself  with  all  sorts  of 
wild  superstitious  tales  among  the  natives.  On  the 
other  side  was  a view  that  was  awesome  in  its 
grandeur.  There  stretching  away  to  the  southeast 
was  a vast  expanse  towards  the  sea  where  on  clear 
days  could  be  seen  Gorongoza  mountain  nearly  200 
miles  away. 

We  had  to  continue  to  follow  this  ridge  or  turn 
back,  for  both  sides  were  too  precipitous  to  descend. 
The  trail  and  the  ridge  narrowed  until  we  came  to 
an  abrupt  and  dizzy  descent  among  huge  boulders. 
So  high  was  it  that  the  donkeys  balked  stoutly  as 
they  looked  down  the  almost  sheer  trail  and  it  took 


73 


In  the  Hundi  Valley 

a good  half  hour  to  get  them  started  for  we  had  to 
deal  gently  with  them  lest  they  break  their  precious 
necks.  Maybe  you  can  reason  with  a mule  but  you 
can’t  with  a donkey. 

Once  started,  we  all  went  like  goats  from  boulder 
to  boulder.  But  when  we  got  to  the  foot  of  the  ridge, 
we  found  that  the  trail  we  were  following  only  led  up 
again  onto  another  ridge  and  there  was  no  trail  to 
the  kraal  which  we  could  see  about  five  miles  away 
over  in  the  Hundi  Valley.  So  we  left  the  path  and 
determined  to  cut  across  the  unbroken  veld  in  order 
to  get  off  the  Heights,  so  that  our  boys  would  not 
suffer  with  the  cold. 

We  now  plunged  into  grass  from  four  to  eight  feet 
high  through  which  we  made  our  weary  way  up  and 
down  almost  precipitous  ravines  so  slippery  from  the 
tall  grass  that  we  were  constantly  losing  our  footing. 
Biding  was  long  since  out  of  the  question  and  we  had 
trouble  to  even  drive  the  donkeys  down  the  steep 
mountainsides.  They  did  not  mind  going  up  but 
they  were  afraid  going  down. 

There  were  swift  mountain  streams  to  be  crossed, 
thick  jungle  to  be  penetrated  but  at  last  at  eight 
o’  clock  that  evening,  we  reached  a kraal  whose  chief 
we  learned  was  named  Bowu.  Here  we  rejoiced  to 
find  a lion-proof  stockade  empty  in  which  we  could 
put  our  weary  donkeys  with  safety.  A roaring  fire 
was  soon  built  at  the  village  loafing  place,  the  dali , a 
place  like  the  “gate”  of  olden  times,  where  all  the 
elders  congregate. 

The  next  morning,  assured  of  our  peaceful  inten- 
tions, a large  crowd  gathered  to  hear  the  Gospel  mes- 
sage for  the  first  time.  Many  of  the  women  laughed 


74  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

and  giggled,  tlie  young  bucks  nudged  each  other, 
some  asked  questions,  some  mocked  and  a few  lis- 
tened with  interest. 

No  missionary  had  ever  been  through  here  before 
and  we  had  good  audiences  at  the  nine  or  ten  kraals 
where  we  held  services  during  the  day  which  was  a 
hard  one.  It  was  still  impossible  to  ride,  for  though 
the  kraals  were  not  far  apart  they  were  all  separated 
from  each  other  by  steep  ravines  from  500  to  800  feet 
deep. 

Near  sundown,  we  came  to  a very  small  collection 
of  huts  and  asked  if  it  were  far  to  the  big  chief 
Sangama’s  kraal.  A smart  young  buck,  with  a 
long  feather  in  his  hair,  came  out  and  assured 
us  most  plausibly  that  Sangama  was  close  at  hand 
and  we  would  reach  his  kraal  before  the  sun  went 
down. 

Were  there  any  more  dongas  (ravines)  to  cross'? 
O no,  there  was  only  one  little  one  and  we  would  get 
there  before  the  sun  set.  The  raw  heathen  take  nat- 
urally to  lying  so  we  rarely  believe  what  they  say 
but  this  story  seemed  quite  truthful. 

A mile  farther  we  came  to  one  of  the  worst  canons 
in  the  whole  of  Ehodesia.  Had  we  seen  at  once  how 
bad  it  was  we  would  have  turned  back.  But  having 
got  into  it  we  had  to  go  through. 

The  trail  was  so  steep  that  it  was  very  difficult  to 
get  our  donkeys  to  go  down.  We  dare  not  force 
them  or  they  would  fall  head  first  and  be  either 
maimed  or  killed. 

So  I had  to  lead  the  way  taking  care  to  be  far 
enough  ahead  so  that  Jack  would  not  drop  on  me  if 
he  did  stumble  and  fall. 


In  the  Hundi  Valley  75 

Jack  was  used  to  following  me  like  a dog  and  so, 
with  many  a halt,  he  came  on.  Nig  was  more  fright- 
ened but  he  could  not  bear  to  lose  sight  of  his  little 
white  chum.  And  besides  behind  him  came  Mr. 
Springer  with  his  sjambok  (whip)  in  hand.  Take  it 
all  in  all,  he  considered  it  best  to  make  his  way  care- 
fully down  the  dizzy  trail. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  the  bottom  and 
plunged  into  thick  jungle  close  to  a roaring  moun- 
tain stream  which  made  a sheer  plunge  of  about  500 
feet  a mile  farther  up-stream.  Had  there  not  been 
so  many  lions  in  the  vicinity,  we  would  have  camped 
there  until  morning,  for  the  stream  was  full  of  big 
boulders  and  deep  pools  and  we  knew  it  would  be 
hard  to  get  the  donkeys  across. 

The  moon  came  out  bright  and  clear  as  we  got  the 
unwilling  quadrupeds  into  the  cold,  rushing  stream. 
They  slipped  into  a pool  and  no  effort  they  could 
make  enabled  them  to  get  a footing  on  the  slippery 
rock  ahead.  The  boys  crossed  over,  laid  down  their 
loads  and  came  back  to  the  rescue  of  the  discour- 
aged, exhausted  little  beasts  who  seemed  in  imminent 
danger  of  drowning.  Eight  boys  and  Mr.  Springer 
succeeded  in  fairly  lifting  each  one  out  bodily  and 
getting  them  safely  on  land. 

Then  my  turn  came  to  cross.  In  midstream,  I 
came  to  a boulder  which  I could  not  climb  unless 
I took  off  my  boots.  So  balancing  myself  on  two 
rocks,  I managed  to  get  to  my  bare  feet  and,  with  a 
good  deal  of  help,  climb  up  one  side  and  slide  down 
the  other  without  dropping  into  the  water. 

Once  more  we  had  thick  jungle  and  a steep  climb 
in  pitchy  darkness  so  that  it  was  nine  o’clock  before 


76  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

we  reached  the  first  kraal,  Chijara’s.  Saugama’s  was 
three  miles  further,  but  we  were  ready  to  camp  for 
the  night.  In  a few  minutes  it  began  to  rain. 

The  next  morning  the  mountains  were  enveloped 
in  a cold,  white  fog  and  mist.  Our  tent  was  wring- 
ing wet  and  all  our  clothes  damp.  We  could  not  get 
an  early  start,  so  we  asked  Chijara  if  we  could  not 
hold  a service  in  one  of  his  huts.  He  was  quite  will- 
ing and  soon  nearly  every  one  in  the  kraal  was 
crowded  into  the  hut.  I sat  on  one  side  of  the  hut 
and  the  women  and  girls  gathered  by  me.  The  men 
and  boys  took  their  places  over  by  Mr.  Springer.  I 
mention  this  for  it  is  a characteristic  custom, — ob- 
served rigidly  within  doors  and  generally  in  the  open 
air  services. 

Whenever  we  have  held  services  in  huts,  even 
where  no  Christian  service  has  ever  been  held  before, 
we  have  always  noted  that  the  women  shyly  take  their 
places  by  the  white  woman’s  side. 

This  congregation  listened  intently  as  they  heard 
the  Old,  Old  Story,  and  the  men  asked  several  intelli- 
gent, interested  questions. 

At  ten  o’clock  the  mists  lifted  and  the  sun  came  out 
so  we  started  on  the  trail,  but  we  had  not  gone  more 
than  two  miles  when  it  began  raining  again  and  soon 
our  feet  and  legs  were  soaking  wet.  What  a day  that 
was ! Drenched  and  chilled  to  the  bone  we  had  to 
climb  and  descend,  climb  and  descend  and  then  climb 
again  for  about  4,000  feet  until  once  more  we  reached 
the  wind-swept  heights.  And  after  that,  we  had  to 
travel  nearly  ten  miles  to  reach  a white  trader’s  store 
so  that  our  boys  could  sleep  in  a hut.  Here  we 
changed  our  own  wet  garments,  but  as  there  was  no 


In  the  Hundi  Valley  77 

fire  we  put  in  another  night  of  keen  suffering  with 
the  cold. 

Such  is  one  of  the  experiences  of  itinerating  in  va- 
cation time. 

But  itipays.  We  have  had  not  a few  boys  from  that 
Hundi  Valley  come  to  the  school  at  Old  Umtali  and 
some  of  those  chiefs  have  been  asking  us  to  send  them 
teachers.  Each  boy  who  comes  to  the  school  is  him- 
self a witness.  He  goes  back  at  vacation  times  and 
tells  what  he  has  himself  learned  and  experienced,  as 
he  sits  around  the  fires  and  the  people  listen  and  freely 
ask  him  whatsoever  they  will.  Thus  the  seed  is  sown 
and  later  the  missionary  follows  to  reap  a glorious 
harvest. 


XIV 

WHAT’S  IN  A NAME? 

THE  African  changes  his  name  like  his  gar- 
ment,— when  it  is  worn  out.  He  gets  tired 
of  one  name  and  gets  another.  He  feels 
that  his  baby  name  is  worn  out  by  the  time  he  reaches 
puberty.  If  he  joins  one  of  the  many  secret  societies 
which  exist  among  the  various  tribes,  he  changes  his 
name  again.  I remember  one  time  on  the  Congo 
when  I met  a man  and  asked  him  how  his  little  son 
Mwanga,  who  had  worked  for  me,  was.  He  replied, 
“He  is  dead,”  which  being  interpreted  meant  that 
having  joined  the  Nkimba,  the  secret  society  of  that 
region,  he  had  changed  his  name  and  the  old  name 
was  dead.  He  also  wished  me  to  believe  that  his  son 
had  really  died  and  that  a new  being  had  come  to  live 
in  his  body.  That  same  man  has  since  learned  to 
say,  “I  am  dead  unto  sin  and  alive  through  Christ,” 
and  become  one  of  the  most  energetic  and  earnest  of 
Christian  workers  there. 

We  find  the  kraal  natives  who  go  to  the  towns  to 
work  almost  always  return  to  their  people  bearing 
such  names  as  Sixpence,  Shilling,  Jumbo,  Tickie,  etc., 
to  which  names  they  hold  tenaciously  and  which  are 
recognized  in  all  seriousness  by  their  friends. 

We  missionaries  are  usually  sticklers  for  native 
names  as  these  hotchpotch  combinations  grate  on 
our  ears.  In  the  school  I always  insisted  on  learning 

78 


What’s  in  a Name? 


79 


a boy’s  kraal  name  and  calling  him  by  it.  So  when 
Benjamin  gave  his  name  as  Fifteen,  I turned  it  down 
at  once  and  always  called  him  Mashoma.  When  he 
came  to  be  baptized,  he  chose  the  name  of  Benjamin, 
but  to  this  day  writes  his  nameBenjaminF.  Madziro, 
the  F„  standing  for  Fifteen.  His  last  letter  is  signed 
F.  B.  Madziro.  Others  have  read  F.  Benjamin  and 
all  other  imaginable  combinations. 

For  although  the  African  is  exceedingly  imitative 
and  determined  to  have  the  full  complement  of  names 
like  a white  man,  he  can  never  seem  (in  the  Bhodesian 
district,  at  least)  to  understand  the  proper  relation 
and  order  of  the  names,  his  variations  being  not  only 
confusing  but  disastrous  to  a satisfactory  mail  service. 
And  the  boys  are  very  keen  on  writing  and  getting 
letters. 

When  our  natives  are  baptized,  they  invariably 
want  a new  name,  nor  is  this  a custom  peculiar  to  the 
African.  Pagan  names  in  all  pagan  countries  have 
had  their  heathenish  significance  so  that  converts  have 
turned  from  them  to  the  names  of  the  Bible  which 
they  have  adopted. 

We  allow  our  people  to  choose,  and  yet  it  often 
needs  a bit  of  the  missionary’s  guidance  to  keep  them 
out  of  the  ridiculous.  There  was  James  : long  before 
he  came  to  us,  he  had  taken  the  name  of  the  master 
for  whom  he  worked,  James  Caplan,  so  that  we  never 
knew  him  by  a native  name.  When  he  was  baptized, 
he  had  his  heart  set  on  the  name  Revelation,  and  it 
was  with  considerable  reluctance  that  he  gave  it  up 
for  Daniel,  which  name  was  well  suited  to  his  charac- 
ter. Daniel’s  preaching  was  after  the  pattern  of  the 
early  Methodist  preaching  of  which  we  read.  He 


80  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

certainly  reminded  us  of  Peter  Cartwright,  who,  it  is 
said,  1 1 fairly  shook  his  congregation  over  the  mouth 
of  hell.” 

When  Mali  and  Useni  came  up  for  baptism,  they 
modestly  asked  for  suggestions  from  their  pastor.  Mali 
said  he  had  thought  of  Stephen  and  wished  to  know 
if  that  seemed  proper.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  suitable  to  his  general  character,  while  the  im- 
pulsive but  ardent,  tender-hearted,  affectionate  Useni 
had  always  been  suggestive  of  the  name  of  Philip. 
So  they  were  thus  named. 

These  two  boys  had  come  to  us  in  the  famine  year 
when  our  crop  had  failed  and  we  were  heavily  in  debt. 
The  edict  had  gone  forth  that  while  no  one  should 
be  sent  away,  no  more  boys  should  be  received.  The 
next  week  these  two  came  and  applied  for  admission. 
Mr.  Springer  hesitated  for  a few  seconds  and  then 
said  to  himself  as  he  looked  into  their  bright,  eager 
faces,  “The  Lord  will  surely  provide,”  and  took 
them  in.  They  are  married  to  Mukonyerwa  and 
Mutisiswa,  two  of  our  best  girls,  and  are  doing  excel- 
lent work  as  evangelists  and  teachers. 

Jone  Nsingo  and  his  wife,  Suiwara,  walked  six 
hundred  miles  to  come  to  our  mission.  Jone  chose  a 
no  less  high  sounding  name  than  that  of  Solomon. 
He  is  a good  man  but  as  yet  has  not  been  preemi- 
nently noted  for  his  learning.  Suiwara  decided  on 
Marita,  a Bantuized  version  of  Martha  though  in 
disposition  she  is  more  of  a Mary.  She  usually 
signs  herself  to  me,  Mrs.  N.  Solomon.  When  she 
had  her  first  little  girl  baptized  Janet  Heren  (the 
natives  often  have  difficulty  in  pronouncing  the  letter 
l)}  I was  wholly  unconscious  of  the  honour  done  me 


What’s  in  a Name? 


81 


for  months.  I often  heard  the  younger  girls  calling 
1 1 Helen  ” but  it  was  a long  time  before  I knew  that 
Janet  was  my  namesake. 

Dr.  Gurney  strongly  disapproved  of  giving  Eng- 
lish names  to  the  wee  black  babies  who  came  under 
his  professional  care.  But  one  day  while  showing 
Mrs.  Ferris  the  latest  addition  to  our  mission  family 
he  jokingly  said,  “We  will  have  to  call  her  Mabel, 
hey?”  And  from  that  on  the  name  Mabeli  was 
irrevocably  fixed  on  the  small  miss  by  her  parents 
and  friends. 

We  had  our  Isaiah,  Ezra,  Abraham,  Isaac  and 
Jacob.  From  the  day  they  were  baptized  and 
solemnly  congratulated  with  hand-shaking  by  their 
fellow  Christians,  they  were  always  religiously  called 
by  their  Christian  names.  Perhaps  that  was  the  right 
way  to  do  but  it  was  hard  for  us  to  bear  in  mind  who 
was  Isaiah  and  which  was  Ezekiel  and  we  often 
lapsed  into  using  the  native  names  again.  The 
thing  that  is  of  vital  importance  to  us  is  that  these 
boys  and  girls,  these  young  men  and  young  women 
have  the  New  Name  given  them  and  are,  indeed, 
sealed  by  the  Holy  Spirit. 


XV 

AN  AFRICAN  VANITY  FAIR 


WHOSO  wends  his  way  to  the  Celestial  City 
must  needs  pass  through  Vanity  Fair. 
It  may  be  in  the  gay  Champs- Ely  sees  of 
gayest  Paris,  in  London’s  poverty -pinched  White- 
chapel, the  fierce  Wall  Street  battle-ground  of  New 
York  or  in  some  obscure  corner  of  a country  town. 
But  there  is  no  evading  it.  So  long  as  this  world 
stands  we  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  inevitable 
Vanity  Fair. 

We  had  been  three  weeks  on  the  trail.  By  foot 
and  by  donkey  we  had  averaged  twenty  miles  a day. 
All  this  day  we  had  travelled  over  the  veld  which 
was  carpeted  with  a thistle  an  inch  or  two  high  so 
that  our  band  of  carriers  were  footsore  and  tired  out. 

These  were  not  ordinary  carriers  whom  we  had 
with  us  this  time.  They  were  eight  of  our  senior 
boys  who  were  in  training  for  evangelists  whom  we 
had  out  on  a 400  mile  trip  for  practical  instruction. 

We  were  also  in  unknown  country  full  of  big  game 
and  abounding  in  lions  so  we  were  anxious  to  get  a 
guide.  So  when  we  came  to  a certain  kraal  at  sun- 
down and  the  people  told  us  that  there  was  not 
another  kraal  near,  we  settled  down  for  the  night 
gladly.  It  was  a large  kraal  but  when  we  held  a 
service  in  the  evening,  very  few  people  came  out. 
This  was  unusual  and  we  wondered  much  at  it. 

82 


An  African  Vanity  Fair  83 

However,  we  hired  a guide  who  told  us  that  with 
one  exception  we  would  not  pass  another  kraal  for 
three  days  and  that  we  would  need  to  supply  our- 
selves with  food  beforehand. 

We  had  not  gone  more  than  four  miles  the  next 
morning  when  we  heard  the  booming  of  a big  drum 
and  the  shrill,  “ Yaii,  yaii-yaii”  of  the  women, 
which  warned  us  that  a native  dance  was  in  progress. 
We  were  not  keen  on  taking  our  little  Christian  band 
through  a drunken  kraal  in  this  remote  and  wild 
section  but  there  was  no  escape  ; for  almost  as  soon 
as  we  heard  the  singing,  the  news  of  our  coming  had 
reached  the  people  and  they  came  dashing  out  to  see 
the  white  woman,  the  first  who  had  ever  been  there. 

This  was  a dilemma.  We  were  depending  on 
these  natives  to  sell  us  food  for  the  empty  country 
ahead.  We  had  been  unable  to  get  much  at  the  last 
kraal  as  the  people  were  all  going  to  this  dance  and 
did  not  want  to  bother  with  us. 

Our  guide  truly  wanted  to  go  along  with  us  to  seek 
work  but  he  also  wanted  the  benefit  of  this  beer  en 
route.  So  he  began  telling  us  that  we  could  not 
reach  water  again  that  day.  We  decided  to  stop  long 
enough  to  eat  and  to  buy.  We  had  been  eating  only 
two  meals  a day  so  if  we  ate  then,  we  could  go  until 
night. 

Used  as  I am  to  natives  (and  on  that  trip  in  par- 
ticular I had  been  an  attraction  unrivalled  by 
Barnum’s  white  elephant),  I was  considerably  dis- 
concerted by  the  howling  mob  which  surrounded  us 
as  soon  as  we  dismounted  and  unsaddled  our  don- 
keys. 

I sat  down  on  a log  and  began  to  write  in  my 


84  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

journal  while  one  of  our  boys,  Long  Jake,  began  to 
barter.  Some  of  the  women  came  and  looked  over 
my  shoulder  to  see  me  write  and  shouted  their 
opinions  as  to  my  cleverness  close  to  my  ears.  Some 
were  selling  millet  meal  to  Jake ; some  came  with 
gourds  of  corn  for  the  donkeys ; some  were  scream- 
ing for  beads,  some  were  shouting  for  salt.  One 
woman  suddenly  shrieked  out  that  the  white  man 
was  taking  a picture  ; some  were  yelping  one  thing, 
and  some  another,  and  unutterable  confusion 
reigned. 

A decrepit  old  hag  comes  and  asks  me  to  do  the 
trading.  She  can’t  cheat  Jake  and  she  knows  she 
can  me.  I tell  her  I do  not  know  how  to  trade,  and 
she  turns  and  shouts  this  to  the  others.  A little 
woman  bends  down  close  to  my  ear  and  begs  for  a 
needle.  I have  none.  A poor  wretch  staggers  up 
and  asks  me  if  I will  buy  a goat  for  money.  I tell 
him  that  is  my  husband’s  business,  not  mine.  A 
woman  thrusts  her  face  into  mine,  her  breath  reek- 
ing and  her  form  reeling,  and  asks  if  I do  not  want 
to  buy  some  beer.  I assure  her  I do  not,  and  she 
proclaims  this  loudly. 

Yonder,  in  his  few  filthy  rags,  lies  the  chief  of  the 
kraal,  dead  drunk.  Over  there  lies  another  man, 
stretched  out,  sleeping  off  his  dissipation.  A younger 
debauchee  makes  himself  odious  to  me  by  following 
me  around,  with  persistent  begging  and  flattery. 
There  goes  a woman  trying  to  lead  her  staggering 
husband  to  his  hut  where  he  will  be  out  of  sight.  He 
resists  and  she  has  to  give  up  the  task. 

At  last  the  trading  is  over  and  we  try  to  have  a 
little  service  with  them  though  it  does  seem  like  cast- 


An  African  Vanity  Fair  85 

ing  pearls  before  swine.  Still  it  is  our  work  to  scat- 
ter the  seed  broadcast.  They  are  all  too  drunk  to 
take  in  much  that  we  say,  if  anything,  or  even  to 
keep  quiet.  The  young  rake  drops  off  to  sleep. 
Near  him  an  old  man,  in  indecent  array,  sits  in  the 
centre  of  the  group  and  alternately  dozes  and  shouts 
to  the  others  to  keep  quiet.  It  would  be  humorous 
if  it  were  not  so  pathetic.  There  they  are,  boys  and 
girls,  youths  and  maidens,  old  men  and  old  women, 
all  insufficiently  clothed  and  all  more  or  less  drunk. 
Even  the  babes  at  the  breast  have  been  affected  by 
the  intoxication  of  their  mothers. 

Poor  souls  ! Far  removed  from  civilization,  in  one 
of  the  most  remote  and  unfrequented  parts  of 
Rhodesia,  they  live  the  same  lives  their  fathers  have 
lived  and  no  one  has  told  them  of  a better  way. 

This  is  heathenism  at  home  as  it  really  is,  divested 
of  all  its  romance, — vile,  sensual,  devilish.  We 
shudder  at  the  repulsiveness  of  those  never-washed 
bodies  and  the  indescribable  filth  of  the  whole  kraal. 
We  shrink  with  disgust  from  the  sight  and  sounds  of 
this  sin-polluted  place. 

There  is  often  an  idea  at  home  that  missionaries  do 
not  mind  these  offensive  features  so  much.  On  the 
contrary,  the  missionary  gets  to  loathe  them  more  and 
more  as  he  comes  to  know  more  of  the  real  life  of  the 
people  and  the  first  rosy-coloured  romance  of  novelty 
wears  away. 

What’s  the  use  then  of  staying?  Because  we  have 
seen  rich  jewels  for  the  Master  gathered  out  of  just 
such  communities  as  this.  Two  men  went  out  of  that 
kraal  and  accompanied  us  to  Old  Umtali  where  they 
worked  for  months  at  the  mission.  One  was  not 


86  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

promising  but  the  other  was  a very  decent,  earnest 
sort  of  fellow  who  attended  our  meetings  regularly. 

We  cannot  say  what  became  of  them.  Sometimes 
we  are  privileged  to  trace  direct  results.  Sometimes 
we  cannot.  But  this  we  do  know  that  many  such 
young  men  have  been  found  in  after  years  to  have  ac- 
cepted Christ  and  to  have  lived  a new  life  which  has 
been  the  means  of  bringing  about  an  entire  revolu- 
tion in  their  old  kraals. 

“Now  I saw  in  my  dream,  that  Christian  went  not 
forth  alone,  for  there  was  one  whose  name  was  Hope- 
ful who  joined  himself  to  him.  This  Hopeful  also 
told  Christian  that  there  were  many  more  of  the  men 
in  the  fair  that  would  take  their  time  and  follow 
after.” 


TRAVELLING  BY  OX  WAGON 


ON  THE  TRAIL  TO  TETE 


XVI 

ON  THE  TRAIL  TO  TETE 


MISSIONARIES  are  often  credited  with  most 
extraordinary  statements  which  would  sur- 
prise them  even  more  than  their  readers. 
I have  before  me  a copy  of  one  of  my  letters  home  in 
which  the  copyist  made  me  say  that  the  Zambesi 
“was  swarming  with  frogs  who  were  used  to  human 
flesh.”  This  may  be  a judgment  on  me  for  using 
the  rather  slangy  term  crocs  instead  of  spelling  croco- 
dile in  full. 

For  a week  we  had  travelled  through  the  dry, 
desert-like  forest  where  we  could  only  get  water  for 
cooking  and  baths  were  out  of  the  question.  Ac- 
cordingly we  had  looked  and  longed  for  the  Big 
River. 

The  Zambesi  was  a disappointment  to  us  as  far  as 
utility  was  concerned  on  account  of  its  saurian  in- 
habitants ; now  although  on  the  banks  of  the  great 
river,  we  were  able  to  get  water  enough  for  cooking 
only  by  tying  our  buckets  to  a long  pole  and  care- 
fully dipping  them  into  the  river. 

At  Cachoa  the  country  became  very  mountainous 
and  the  trail  led  away  from  the  river  over  one  of  the 
roughest  mountain  ranges  I have  ever  seen.  The 
donkeys  had  all  they  could  do  to  look  after  them- 
selves which  they  did  very  willingly  with  much  kick- 

87 


88  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

ing  of  heels  whenever  they  got  onto  a place  sufficiently 
level  to  admit  of  such  capering. 

That  night  at  Cachoa  we  had  slept  in  the  same 
house  where  Livingstone  had  been  entertained  a half 
a century  before.  The  house  was  a large,  roomy, 
massive  affair,  its  thick  walls  and  heavy  shutters 
and  doors  having  been  made  to  stand  against  an  at- 
tack of  the  enemy  whether  Portuguese  or  native. 
That  was  in  the  high  day  of  slavery  and  the  half- 
caste  owner  of  this  house  was  a nabob  and  a prince. 

The  house  was  all  falling  in  when  we  were  there  in 
1906,  and  had  been  abandoned  as  unsafe.  As  Mr. 
Springer  was  taken  with  a very  heavy  fever,  we  were 
put  in  one  room  that  was  considered  reasonably  safe, 
in  order  that  I might  be  better  able  to  care  for  him 
than  in  a tent.  So  the  boys  brought  in  grass  and 
piled  it  on  the  floor  in  one  corner,  arranged  our 
blankets  and  he  went  to  bed  about  2 p.  m. 

The  house,  to  repeat,  was  in  a state  of  decay  like 
the  government  whose  slave  trade  had  been  its  own 
undoing.  The  heavy  rafters  had  been  tunnelled  by 
borers  and  the  white  ants  until  they  bent,  and  in 
some  places  had  already  fallen  in  under  the  weight  of 
the  red  tiles  on  the  roof.  Most  of  the  rooms  were  lit- 
tered with  dirt  and  rubbish  and  the  only  occupants 
were  the  rats  or  a chance  snake  which  came  to  hunt 
them  down. 

I was  glad  when  the  morning  dawned  for  my  hus- 
band had  been  more  or  less  delirious  all  night  and  I 
felt  none  too  comfortable  in  the  gloomy  old  ruin  all 
alone.  As  he  felt  better,  we  got  onto  the  trail  as  early 
as  possible  for  we  had  learned  in  the  sultry  Zambesi 
valley  to  travel  early  and  late  (usually  whether  sick 


On  the  Trail  to  Tete  89 

or  well)  and  keep  in  the  shade  through  the  heat  of  the 
day  from  ten  till  four. 

We  were  now  to  go  around  the  Kabrabasa  Rapids 
by  an  inland  route.  We  had  been  told  that  water 
was  scarce  and  so  took  two  of  our  canvass  buckets 
full  when  we  left  Cachoa.  After  ten  miles,  we  had 
our  breakfast  and  rested  in  the  shade  of  some  fine, 
big  trees.  At  three,  we  went  on  about  four  miles 
when  we  came  to  a camping  place  for  caravans. 
Here  we  found  a hole  in  the  ground  into  which  water 
slowly  seeped.  But  in  order  to  dip  it  out,  each  car- 
rier had  to  step  into  the  hole  with  one  foot.  That 
day  some  200  carriers  had  possibly  stepped  into  the 
hole.  We  had  met  them  on  the  trail  and  so  decided 
that  we  would  do  without  water  and  food  until  we 
could  find  something  better.  For  it  is  hard  to  find  a 
native  who  is  not  affected  directly  or  indirectly  with 
some  loathsome  disease.  Leprosy  is  very  common, 
ulcers  abound,  a horrible  eczema  prevails  and  other 
things  unmentionable.  So  our  refusal  to  use  that 
water  was  not  on  purely  fastidious  grounds. 

However,  our  boys  cooked  their  food  and  drank 
the  water,  though  they  laughed  and  made  wry  faces 
and  admitted  the  water  wasn’t  exactly  up  to  the  mark. 
It  was  five  o’clock  when  we  started  out  again  and  the 
short  tropical  twilight  soon  gave  way  to  the  light  of 
the  moon.  We  began  to  climb  wearily  and  made 
poor  time,  but  mile  after  mile  passed  and  we  reached 
what  seemed  the  top  of  a range  of  high  hills  and  yet 
no  sign  of  water. 

After  nine  miles,  I announced  that  I could  not  go 
another  rod,  and  as  we  were  in  quite  a woods  where 
the  boys  could  have  a fire  to  protect  them  from  the 


90  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

wild  beasts,  leopards  were  especially  thick  in  that 
section  and  lions  quite  numerous,  we  camped  and 
spent  a restless  night  dreaming  about  streams  and 
fountains,  ever  trying  to  get  a drink. 

With  the  first  gray  of  the  dawn,  we  were  on  the 
trail  again  descending  to  the  plain  where  we  knew  we 
must  reach  water.  Soon  our  eyes  were  gladdened 
with  the  sight  of  fields  of  Kaffir  corn.  Now  there 
must  be  water.  After  another  mile,  which  seemed 
like  two,  we  met  a couple  of  men. 

“ Where  is  the  water  we  asked. 

“It  isn’t  very  near,”  they  replied,  “and  it  isn’t 
very  good.  There  are  snakes  in  it.” 

Now  the  word  for  snake  is  nyoka , and  it  is  used  also 
for  a pain  in  the  stomach,  so  we  were  in  doubt  as  to 
what  was  meant.  None  of  our  boys  could  talk  flu- 
ently with  the  men,  being  of  another  tribe.  But  we 
all  wanted  to  find  water  and  were  willing  to  take,  as 
we  thought,  most  anything. 

Two  miles  further,  we  came  to  an  opening  where 
there  were  twenty  or  more  men  and  women  gathered 
around  a bare  spot.  There  were  as  many  large  black 
clay  water  jars,  some  of  which  were  filled  with  an 
opaque,  slimy  fluid.  The  other  jars  were  empty. 

“Here,”  said  the  man  who  had  guided  us  to  the 
place  for  a box  of  matches,  “here  is  the  water,”  and 
he  took  us  over  to  a hole  in  the  side  of  a black  clay 
bank.  The  hole  might  have  been  four  feet  deep,  but 
ran  diagonally  into  the  bank.  At  the  bottom,  the 
water  was  slowly  oozing  through,  but  before  there 
could  be  enough  for  the  waiting  women  to  dip  it  out, 
it  had  to  cover  one  tangled,  slimy,  crawling  mass  of 
glazy,  black  frogs  which  bore  little  resemblance  to 


On  the  Trail  to  Tete 


91 


the  pretty,  bright  green,  cheery,  bass- toned  playfel- 
lows of  our  childhood  days.  These  frogs  appeared  to 
be  sightless  and  half  dead. 

“ Why  in  the  world  don’t  they  take  them  out?”  I 
exclaimed  shuddering. 

“ Because  they  are  afraid  they  would  displease  the 
water  spirits  (bad  spirits)  and  the  water  would  cease 
to  come  at  all.” 

“Do  you  want  to  stop  here  and  eat?”  was  asked 
the  boys.  Daniel,  the  spokesman,  was  quick  to  give 
an  emphatic  negative.  Jake  shook  his  head  with  a 
comical  grin.  Not  a boy  would  consent  to  stay.  So 
we  had  to  retrace  our  way  a half  mile  back  to  the 
main  trail  and  then  trek  four  miles  more  until  we 
came  to  another  of  the  numerous  sand  rivers  in  that 
region.  Here  the  natives  had  several  holes  from  two 
to  twelve  feet  deep  where  we  could  get  a clean  though 
whitish  water.  Here  too  the  natives  crowded  cu- 
riously about  us  bringing  food  for  sale  while  we  were 
able  to  tell  them  who  we  were  and  somewhat  about 
that  water  of  Life  which  Christ  has  promised  so  freely 
and  which  the  Church  deals  out  so  sparingly  that 
these  poor  souls  had  never  heard  of  it  before  nor  will 
they  for  a long  time  again. 


XVII 


A TALE  OF  TWO  DONKEYS 

THE  first  big  thing  I ever  prayed  for  in  my 
life  was  a donkey,  and  it  took  considerable 
coaxing  of  my  faith  to  do  that.  I was  so 
afraid  I might  be  presumptuous  and  be  asking  too 
much : for  donkeys  were  costing  then  about  $200 
each.  The  Master  says,  “ Ask  largely  : herein  is  My 
Father  glorified,”  and  then  we  resort  to  all  sorts  of 
dodges,  lest  if  we  do  ask  we  may  embarrass  Him. 

So  I did  a lot  of  quibbling  before  I asked  for  the 
donkey.  It  wasn’t  exactly  an  absolute  necessity,  as 
I have  ever  been  a fairly  good  pedestrian.  I could 
not  even  claim  it  on  the  ground  of  health,  for  I was 
nearly  five  years  in  Ehodesia  before  I had  a fever  and 
I was  not  able  to  foresee  what  a blessing  a donkey 
would  be  to  me  then.  But  I did  know  that  I could 
do  more  effective  work  if  I had  a quadruped,  and  so 
at  last  I very  tremblingly  stepped  out  on  His  prom- 
ises and  prayed  for  the  donkey,  all  the  while  telling 
myself  that  if  my  prayer  wasn’t  answered,  I should 
know  it  was  because  I did  not  really  need  the 
donkey. 

No  wonder  that  we  find  so  oft  repeated  by  the  Mas- 
ter, u O ye  of  little  faith  ! ” How  our  meanness  must 
pain  Him  ! Now  as  nearly  as  I can  figure  out,  all  the 
time  I was  metaphorically  standing  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other  trying  to  decide  which  way  to 

92 


A Tale  of  Two  Donkeys  93 

go,  tlie  money  was  on  the  way,  sent  by  a woman  of 
God  in  Vineland,  New  Jersey. 

Jack’s  master  died  and  he  was  put  in  the  hands  of 
an  auctioneer  for  sale.  One  day  when  Mr.  Springer 
was  over  to  Umtali,  this  man  said  that  he  heard  I 
wanted  a donkey,  and  here  was  one  for  only  $150, 
and  he  would  throw  off  his  own  commission  and  that 
would  make  him  $140.  So  Jack  became  my  prop- 
erty. He  worked  for  his  board  down  at  the  mission 
stables  the  while  I was  under  the  Woman’s  Board, 
and  many  a trip  to  the  kraals  he  carried  me  between 
times. 

However,  as  an  unmarried  woman  I could  not  make 
extensive  journeys,  but  after  my  marriage  I was  able 
to  accompany  my  husband  on  the  wider  circles  of  the 
district  of  which  he  was  presiding  elder.  Altogether 
little  Jackie  must  have  carried  me  more  than  2,000 
miles  by  native  trail. 

As  a rule  Jack  was  a gentle,  sociable,  friendly  little 
beast,  an  ideal  lady’s  riding  donkey.  His  one  weak- 
ness was  his  unwillingness  to  tolerate  a rival.  He 
was  ready  to  fight  to  the  finish  any  donkey  who  made 
pretense  of  braying  louder  than  he  did. 

So  when  two  new  donkeys  were  added  to  the  mis- 
sion equipment  and  one  of  them  was  chosen  to  go  on 
a 400  mile  trip  with  Jack,  he  was  quite  willing  to 
make  friends.  The  newcomer  couldn’t  bray.  Jack 
was  quite  willing  to  do  all  the  braying  for  them  both. 
The  new  donkey  was  as  black  as  Jack  was  white  so 
we  called  him  Nig. 

Nig  had  never  been  broken  to  the  saddle  before 
and  did  not  receive  his  burden  on  his  back  with  good 
grace.  For  the  first  week,  he  was  continually  bolt- 


94  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

ing  from  the  path  to  wipe  off  that  load  under  the 
low  limbs  of  the  trees.  This  not  only  proved  annoy- 
ing to  the  rider  but  as  Jack  always  insisted  in  follow- 
ing suit  to  see  what  was  going  on,  it  was  difficult  for 
me  to  keep  my  own  neck  safe. 

After  a week’s  time,  the  two  were  inseparable.  It 
was  impossible  to  hold  one  if  the  other  was  out  of 
sight.  And  yet  when  they  were  together  they  quar- 
relled. Many  a night  we  were  kept  awake  with 
Mg’s  kicking  and  squealing  until  Mr.  Springer 
would  have  to  get  up  and  give  them  both  a thrash- 
ing. That  seemed  to  satisfy  them  and  they  would 
keep  tolerably  quiet  the  rest  of  the  night. 

When  we  dismounted  and  walked  along  the  trail 
to  rest  our  backs  and  theirs,  we  always  tied  their 
reins  to  the  saddles  and  sent  them  ahead.  Off  they 
would  trot  with  a frisky  kick  of  the  heels,  Jack  fre- 
quently stopping  to  look  around  as  much  as  to  say, 
“Are  you  coming?”  But  when  he  heard  the  loud 
“ Anno”  for  him  to  wait,  he  would  slyly  wink  an 
ear,  kick  up  his  heels,  give  Mg  a nip  in  the  thigh 
and  the  two  would  scamper  off  like  two  naughty  boys. 

One  night  we  were  down  in  the  Sena  district  and 
came  to  a kraal  at  about  sundown.  As  usual  we 
asked  the  chief  where  we  could  pitch  our  tent  for  the 
night.  He  replied  that  he  would  not  consent  to  our 
putting  up  our  tent  at  all.  That  the  lions  were  so 
thick  and  so  bold  in  that  section  that  he  would  not 
risk  having  any  white  man’s  blood  on  his  head.  It 
was  a small  kraal  so  he  said  he  could  not  let  us  have 
a hut  either  but  if  we  wished,  we  might  sleep  over 
the  goat  pen.  Now  this  particular  goat  pen  was  the 
strongest  one  I ever  saw  or  smelled.  It  was  built  of 


95 


A Tale  of  Two  Donkeys 

large  poles  so  to  be  lion  proof.  On  the  top  of  it  was 
a small  grainery  which  was  reached  by  a ladder.  I 
objected  to  the  grainery  on  account  of  the  odour. 
Moreover,  we  could  not  leave  the  donkeys  out  to  be 
eaten.  The  boys  could  all  find  shelter  and  protec- 
tion,— if  not  comfort, — in  a dilapidated  hut  used  for 
the  kraal  boys  and  single  men. 

What  should  we  do  u?  Darkness  was  already  upon 
us  so  we  could  not  go  on  nor  go  back.  At  last  the 
chief  very  unwillingly  consented  to  let  us  have  one 
hut  for  the  night.  There  seemed  no  other  way  but 
to  take  the  donkeys  in  with  us,  giving  them  one-half 
of  the  hut  and  we  taking  the  other. 

We  ate  our  humble  meal  by  the  light  of  a slim  bon- 
fire and  then  began  to  hold  service  as  it  was  getting 
late  and  the  native  retires  early.  I noticed  a group 
of  women  some  distance  away  and  calling  to  Daniel 
to  come  with  me  and  bring  the  baby  organ,  I went 
over  to  them.  They  at  once  came  around  me  and  I 
talked  to  them  in  Chikaranga  while  one  of  their 
young  men  acted  as  interpreter  into  Chikunda.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  earnest  faces  and  earnest  ques- 
tions of  those  women  as  I told  again  the  Old,  Old 
Story,  ever  new.  There  was  one  woman  whose  face 
was  lined  with  sorrow  who  drank  in  my  words  with 
an  eagerness  which  showed  the  hunger  and  thirst  of 
her  soul.  I had  our  only  lantern  in  which  was  a 
candle  with  me  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  coming 
to  these  women  was  like  that  tiny  flame  in  the  midst 
of  the  dense  darkness.  We  sent  Daniel  and  Jim 
back  over  that  route  to  preach  again  and  I hope  that 
that  one  woman  at  least  found  the  soul  rest  for  which 
she  was  longing. 


96  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

The  services  over,  we  had  the  task  of  stowing  our- 
selves away  for  the  night.  At  the  very  outset  there 
was  trouble  with  the  donkeys  who  objected  to  being 
crowded  through  that  narrow  door.  Jack,  being  the 
smaller  and  more  amenable  to  reason , was  pulled  in 
first  when  Nig  crowded  after  him  in  haste. 

We  had  partitioned  the  hut  off  with  poles  and 
made  a partition  between  the  two  donkeys  so  we 
thought  they  would  be  quiet.  They  seemed  peace- 
able enough  when  we  crept  in  between  our  blankets 
with  our  clothes  on  as  usual. 

For  a half  hour  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  us 
but  the  incessant  buzzing  of  mosquitoes  and  biting  of 
fleas.  The  fleas  were  also  stirring  up  the  donkeys 
who  began  to  get  restless  and  move  around.  Mr. 
Springer  shouted  to  them  to  keep  quiet  and  there 
was  a lull.  Soon  they  began  prancing  around  again 
so  he  got  up  and  tied  them  more  securely.  He  had 
hardly  laid  down  again  when  there  was  a scrimmage 
between  the  two  donkeys  and  we  jumped  up  just  in 
time  to  save  ourselves  as  Jack  fell  over  the  poles  and 
rolled  onto  the  bed  speeded  by  Mg’s  heels. 

It  was  then  eleven  o’clock  and  we  were  dead  tired 
from  daily  marches  and  much  fever.  So  the  decree 
went  forth  and  one  donkey  with  it,  Mg.  He  was 
tied  out  under  the  eaves  where  he  and  Jack  could 
smell  noses  through  the  cracks  but  not  touch  each 
other.  The  tent  was  tied  around  the  back  of  him  so 
to  give  all  possible  protection.  And  then  we  went 
to  sleep  while  Jack  behaved  himself  until  morning. 

It  was  a week  later  on  a Monday  morning  that  we 
found  ourselves  at  the  foothills  of  the  high  plateau 
on  which  Old  Umtali  is  situated.  There  was  a climb 


97 


A Tale  of  Two  Donkeys 

of  some  3,000  feet  ahead  of  us  and  we  were  both  weak- 
ened by  fever.  For  weeks  we  had  had  fever  nearly 
every  day  and  as  our  rations  had  been  unvaried  rice 
and  salmon,  we  had  not  been  able  to  eat,  either. 
How  we  ever  made  it,  I hardly  know.  But  the  last 
half  mile  was  less  steep  than  the  rest,  as  there  were 
no  boulders  but  only  a steady  ascent.  I had  dragged 
my  aching  body  as  far  as  it  seemed  I could.  Mr. 
Springer  put  his  saddle  on  Jack  and  placed  me  in 
the  saddle.  It  was  a stiff  climb  but  I determined  to 
stay  on  as  long  as  Jack  would  carry  me  for  if  it  got 
to  the  impossible,  I knew  he  would  stop. 

Jack  started  off  bravely.  The  path  grew  steeper 
but  he  only  dug  his  little  hoofs  into  the  ground  and 
kept  on  climbing.  At  last  it  was  so  steep  that  I 
leaned  over,  put  my  arms  around  his  neck  and  flat- 
tened myself  on  his  back  and  in  that  way,  with  much 
hard  panting,  he  got  me  to  the  top. 

And  what  a magnificent  panorama  of  mountain, 
valley  and  plain  was  spread  out  before  us  as  we  stood 
there  at  the  head  of  that  Hundi  Valley  into  which 
we  had  gone  for  the  first  time  the  year  before. 
During  this  time  we  had  had  several  boys  come  to 
our  school  from  that  vicinity.  And  the  time  will  soon 
come  when  that  region  will  ring  with  the  songs  of  the 
children  in  school  and  when  on  Sabbath  days  the 
sweet  toned  bell  on  some  native  chapel  will  summons 
the  Valley  to  praise  and  to  prayer. 


XVIII 

THE  GLORIOUS  FOURTH  IN  AFRICA 


IT  was  on  Monday,  July  3,  1905,  that  we  broke 
camp  anew  after  a rather  unsatisfactory  Sun- 
day at  M’Kewa’s,  one  of  the  largest  kraals  in 
Southern  Ehodesia.  A large  crowd  had  gathered 
around  us  on  our  arrival  and  all  the  rest  of  Saturday 
afternoon  we  were  besieged  with  visitors.  But  the 
word  had  gone  out  that  we  were  there  to  steal  the 
children  to  cut  up  and  make  them  up  into  medicine 
for  witchcraft  and  at  once  there  was  a marked  change 
in  their  attitude.  Instead  of  running  after  us  in  a 
perfect  mob,  they  ran  away  as  hard  as  they  could. 
Sunday  morning  most  of  the  mothers  bundled  their 
babies  onto  their  backs  and  left  for  their  gardens. 
So  Sunday  we  could  not  get  an  audience  anywhere. 

Monday  morning  we  once  more  got  onto  the  trail. 
There  were  Charley,  Vega,  Philip,  Samuel,  Tom, 
Stephen,  Mukanganwa  [and  Nyasha,  all  of  whom 
were  in  training  for  the  ministry  and  who  are  now 
engaged  as  Christian  workers  in  the  mission.  They 
with  one  other  boy,  the  two  donkeys  and  ourselves 
formed  our  little  caravan. 

Leaving  the  M’Rewa  police  camp  at  eleven  o’clock 
we  took  as  our  next  objective  point  the  M’Toko 
police  camp  forty  miles  away.  We  had  been  told 
that  there  was  water  all  along  the  trail  and  we 
could  camp  anywhere.  So  there  was  if  one  but 

98 


The  Glorious  Fourth  in  Africa  99 

knew  where  to  find  it.  We  did  not  and  as  there 
were  no  cross  trails  leading  to  it,  darkness  fell  and 
we  had  found  no  place  where  we  could  camp. 

Two  natives  passed  us  just  at  dusk  and  we  asked 
them  where  there  was  water.  They  replied  it  was  at 
the  river  and  they  were  hurrying  towards  it  for  the 
night.  As  they  had  no  loads,  they  went  on  and  soon 
disappeared  in  the  rapidly  deepening  twilight. 

We  were  going  down  a mountain  range  to  the 
Nyandiri  Eiver.  I walked  as  fast  as  I could  in  the 
darkness  fearing  to  ride,  but  my  strength  gave  out  so 
I had  to  mount.  Mr.  Springer  walked  behind  Mg 
switching  his  legs  now  and  then  so  that  he  trotted  on 
almost  out  of  Jack’s  sight.  This  made  Jack  hurry 
on  after  him,  forgetting  his  own  tired  little  legs. 

After  four  miles  in  the  darkness,  the  sound  of 
rushing  waters  warned  us  that  the  river  was  close  at 
hand.  The  boys  put  down  their  loads  and  begged  to 
camp  where  they  were.  They  said  they  did  not 
know  the  river  and  did  not  like  to  cross  in  the  dark. 
Besides  they  were  too  tired  to  go  further.  But  there 
were  too  many  lions  in  this  vicinity  for  us  to  think 
of  camping  in  the  open.  It  was  here  that  Mr.  Nell 
had  been  killed  by  lions  two  years  previously.  It 
was  so  dangerous  that  the  government  had  built  a 
lion  proof  caravansary  for  travellers,  mostly  native 
police. 

So  the  boys  lighted  the  candle  in  the  lantern 
and  Yega  started  with  it  down  the  steep  embank- 
ment towards  the  river  and  carefully  made  his  way 
across,  the  others  following.  But  we  could  not  cross 
where  they  did  on  our  donkeys  and  we  did  not  feel 
like  wading  unless  it  was  necessary. 


loo  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

So  with  many  a plunge  into  some  deep  pool,  a 
stumble  over  a rock  and  the  danger  of  being  any 
moment  precipitated  into  the  stream,  we  finally  got 
safely  over  and  climbed  the  bank  on  the  other  side. 

But  there  was  not  a sign  of  the  caravansary. 
Where  could  it  be?  At  last  after  much  searching 
along  the  trail  with  the  lantern  for  a path  leading  off 
from  it,  we  spied  a light  about  a quarter  of  a mile 
away  and  started  for  it  stumbling  along  over  rough 
native  gardens,  shivering  with  the  cold. 

The  caravansary  was  a yard  enclosed  by  a high 
circular  fence  of  strong  poles  placed  close  together  so 
no  lion  could  break  through  nor  jump  over.  There 
were  also  two  huts,  one  in  which  the  native  guard 
and  his  family  lived  and  the  other  for  strangers. 
The  latter  was  already  full  of  natives. 

There  was  no  place  for  us  to  pitch  our  tents,  and 
only  a little  wood  for  a fire  so  we  drank  some  hot 
coffee,  wrapped  up  in  our  blankets  and  tried  to  sleep 
but  could  not  for  the  bitter  cold.  When  the  morn- 
ing dawned,  the  ground  was  all  white  with  hoar-frost. 

Our  boys  cooked  the  supper  they  did  not  get  the 
night  before  for  breakfast,  and  it  was  late  when  we 
started.  The  frosty  ground  chaps  their  bare  feet 
badly  if  they  are  forced  to  go  out  on  it  in  the  early 
morning.  So  we  do  not  compel  them  to  start  early 
on  such  mornings. 

Then  began  an  ascent  on  the  other  side.  About 
three  miles  on,  we  met  a native  police,  or  black 
watch,  and  asked  him  how  far  it  was  to  M’ Toko’s. 
1 1 Just  at  hand,”  he  exclaimed  encouragingly  ; “I 
just  left  there  this  morning.”  The  heathen  African 
is  perhaps  the  most  cheerful  liar  in  the  world. 


The  Glorious  Fourth  in  Africa  101 


Noon  found  us  still  toiling  along  in  heavy  white 
sand  while  the  sun  shone  blisteringly  over  our  heads. 
We  came  to  an  almost  stagnant  stream  of  milky 
water  and  decided  to  stop  for  lunch.  About  one 
o’clock  we  started  on  thinking  we  surely  were  almost 
there.  Soon  we  met  a native  man  and  woman. 
“ Where  is  M’ Toko’s?  ” we  asked.  “ Ah  ! ” he  ex- 
claimed his  face  lighting  up  with  pleasurable  antici- 
pation of  a reward  for  his  information,  “ you  are 
there  already.  When  will  you  get  there?  Zwino- 
zwino , just  now,  this  minute.”  “ Zwinozwinof'* 
snorted  the  boys,  “it’s  all  zwinozwino  with  these 
natives  here.  They’re  awful  liars.”  Which  was  be- 
yond dispute  true. 

At  three  o’clock  we  came  to  the  only  sign-board 
we  have  ever  seen  in  over  3,000  miles  trekking.  In 
weather- washed  lettering  we  read,  “To  M’Toko 
Police  Camp.”  Our  courage  revived.  Surely  we 
must  be  near  there  now.  But  the  old  wagon  road 
was  so  overgrown  that  it  soon  was  obliterated  and 
several  times  we  lost  it  in  the  long  grass  as  we 
crossed  some  swampy  place  or  old  abandoned  native 
gardens. 

At  four  o’clock  we  came  to  a kraal  and  asked  a 
young  man  the  way  to  M’ Toko’s.  “You  are  in  the 
most  direct  path  now,”  he  answered.  “You  will 
get  there  when  the  sun  goes  down.”  This  was,  I be- 
lieve, the  only  truthful  and  direct  answer  from  a 
native  on  all  that  trip  of  nearly  400  miles  and  there- 
fore deserves  special  mention. 

Sure  enough,  five  miles  further,  we  came  to  the 
camp  where  two  white  troopers  and  a corporal  might 
be  said  to  be  buried  alive.  No  white  woman  had  ever 


102  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

visited  that  camp  before  and  very  few  men.  There 
was  little  work  to  be  done,  and  almost  nothing  to  read. 
They  were  practically  cut  off  from  all  the  outside 
world  in  which  they  had  grown  up,  buried  alive  in  the 
midst  of  a savage  people  and  untouched  heathenism. 

Said  one  white  man  to  us,  “Take  the  Gospel  to 
these  Africans  for  our  sakes  if  not  for  theirs.  They 
will  surely  drag  us  down  if  we,  as  a superior  race,  do 
not  lift  them  up.” 

We  spent  the  evening  with  the  three  lonely  white 
men  who  had  not  seen  a white  woman  for  so  long  that 
they  hardly  knew  how  to  act.  They  felt  like  school- 
boys of  the  awkward  age  again.  One  brought  in  his 
mascot,  a queer,  beautifully  marked  wild  animal  that 
he  had  caught  and  tamed.  This  broke  the  ice  and 
conversation  flowed  freely.  Before  they  left,  we  had 
evening  prayers,  a fitting  close  for  that  long-to-be-re- 
membered Fourth. 


THE  FIRST  WHITE  WEDDING  AT  OLD  UMTAH 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  M.  Springer,  New  Year’s,  1905 


XIX 

CHRISTMAS  AT  OLD  UMTALI 


WHENEVER  I think  of  that  first  big  cele- 
bration of  Christmas  at  the  mission,  there 
comes  up  before  me  the  picture  of  Philip 
(he  was  only  Useni  then)  as  I saw  him  coming  back 
from  the  kraals  with  the  Christmas  dinner. 

Mr.  Springer  had  given  him  and  Vurungu  (Jacob) 
five  dollars  and  had  sent  them  away  to  do  their  best 
in  buying  meat  for  the  feast.  Philip  was  a senior  : 
Jacob  was  still  classed  among  the  “picanines,”  as  the 
boys  called  them.  Jacob  was  the  old  king’s  grand- 
son and  he  knew  it  well.  So  did  the  natives  and  that 
was  why  he  was  sent  with  Philip  to  help  drive  a 
bargain. 

The  next  morning  I heard  a noise,  and  looking  out 
my  back  door  saw  Philip  in  the  wake  of  two  lively 
goats  which  were  trying  to  pull  him  along  at  a pace 
that  was  incompatible  with  his  dignity.  He  was 
dressed  in  a long,  black  rubber  rain  coat  which  came 
down  to  his  bare  feet  and  was  buttoned  up  tight  to 
the  chin.  On  his  head  was  a black  derby  hat  while 
his  usually  sunny  face  was  as  grave  as  a deacon’s. 
Was  he  not  the  important  bearer  of  the  Christmas 
dinner  ? Behind  him  was  Jacob  with  a rooster  under 
each  arm.  (He  had  bought  and  paid  for  them 
though.)  Once  the  two  goats  were  safely  tethered 

103 


104  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

out  in  the  side  yard,  Philip  relaxed  and  entered  into 
the  prevailing  air  of  festivity. 

Daniel  had  been  told  off  to  decorate  the  church  so 
he  marshalled  his  band  of  youthful  assistants,  had 
them  form  in  military  line  and  march  for  the  veld 
like  young  soldiers.  Daniel  had  a real  passion  for 
drilling  all  the  small  boys,  himself  being  the  com- 
manding officer,  of  course.  And  the  small  boys  en- 
joyed it  too.  Daniel’s  band  would  have  put  to  shame 
the  native  soldiers  whom  we  saw  drilling  in  a go-as- 
you-please  manner  near  Malange.  That  kind  of 
thing  would  not  have  done  for  Daniel.  In  person  he 
was  so  straight  that  he  almost  bent  backward : in 
character  he  was  the  same  and  his  religious  doctrine 
measured  up  to  his  character.  So  he  marched  the 
small  fry  away  and  later  on  they  came  marching 
back  with  palm  leaves  for  guns,  lustily  singing,  u On- 
ward Christian  Soldiers.” 

Daniel  trimmed  the  church  handsomely  and  in  the 
afternoon  I found  him  in  the  compound  presiding 
over  the  kitchen  where  a dozen  or  so  boys  had 
clubbed  together  to  make  cakes,  pies  and  other  in- 
digestible pasties  out  of  flour,  sugar,  etc.,  that  they 
had  bought  with  their  saved-up  money.  One  pie  was 
made  with  two  thick,  unshortened  crusts,  the  filling 
consisting  of  native  honey.  However,  the  boys  were 
all  blessed  with  good  appetites  and  equally  good 
digestions. 

Christmas  eve  the  suppressed  enthusiasm  of  the 
day  gave  way  to  a burst  of  song.  They  sang  the 
hymn-book  through  and  back  again  and  our  little 
valley  was  a flood  of  melody  until  nearly  midnight. 

Although  it  was  our  midsummer,  the  morning 


Christmas  at  Old  Umtali  105 

dawned  ratlier  chill  and  misty.  Heavy  white  clouds 
hung  over  the  top  of  Mt.  Hartzell  and  a thick  fog 
hovered  over  the  spruit.  But  nothing  daunted  by 
the  late  hour  of  the  previous  evening  or  the  cold  of 
the  morning,  every  student  was  out  by  the  first  gray 
of  the  dawn  to  march  in  line  around  to  the  three 
houses  of  the  white  missionaries,  singing  Christmas 
carols.  The  Boer  farm  overseer’s  wife  told  me  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  that  when  she  first  awakened  and 
heard  the  singing  in  the  distance,  she  thought  she 
must  be  in  heaven. 

At  nine  o’clock  the  call  for  church  was  sounded  on 
a broken  crowbar  which  had  been  hung  up  in  place 
of  the  bell  which  came  three  years  later.  Our  boys 
arrived  promptly  with  faces  duly  solemnized  for  the 
occasion.  Whatever  other  apparel  the  native  A frican 
may  lack,  he  is  always  able  to  clothe  himself  with 
dignity  as  with  a garment.  With  the  boys  were  a 
few  native  guests  who  had  been  invited  by  their 
friends  and  brothers, — enough  to  spread  the  word 
about  the  country  so  that  the  next  year  there  were 
four  times  as  many  others  from  the  kraals.  Among 
the  guests^was  Mukonyerwa,  Jacob’s  sister,  soon  to  be 
Kaduku’s  fiancee. 

The  two  little  Boer  girls  had  been  made  glad  with 
white  dresses  and  new  dolls  and  their  mother  by 
means  of  hard  work  and  fine  calculations  had 
managed  to  buy  them  shoes  and  white  parasols.  Even 
the  fifty  carved  ebony  faces  lighted  up  with  admira- 
tion and  pleasure  as  the  two  flaxen-haired  lassies,  ar- 
rayed like  little  angels,  softly  tiptoed  up  the  aisle  and 
took  their  usual  places  on  the  front  seat. 

After  the  singing,  the  praying  and  the  short 


io6  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Christmas  sermon,  the  gifts  were  distributed.  The 
mission  could  not  afford  luxuries  but  the  new  hymn- 
books  for  the  older  boys  and  enamel  plates  and  tin 
spoons  for  the  younger  ones  were  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated. 

Then  came  the  dinner,  and  two  goats  did  not  go 
very  far  when  they  had  to  be  distributed  among  sixty 
persons.  But  there  was  plenty  of  rice  and  the  cooks 
saw  to  it  that  there  was  plenty  of  gravy.  On  account 
of  the  extra  and  unexpected  visitors,  we  added  to  the 
menu  a few  tins  of  salmon,  a slice  of  bread  for  each 
person  and  some  peanuts. 

One  of  the  amusing  features  was  the  setting  of  the 
tables.  All  the  new  plates  and  spoons  had  to  be 
turned  over  to  Stephen  and  Philip.  Some  of  the 
boys  were  the  wealthy  owners  of  agate  cups.  Care- 
fully opened  milk  tins  had  to  serve  for  the  rest.  But 
there  were  not  enough  of  them,  so  there  was  a hur- 
ried search  made  in  all  the  houses  and  every  possible 
place  where  a milk  tin  might  be  found  to  eke  out 
enough.  The  table-cloths  were  of  unbleached  muslin 
and  Daniel  came  to  the  front  to  lay  flowers  on  the 
cloths  and  arrange  bouquets  of  flowers  of  which  there 
were  plenty. 

The  early  morning  mist  had  soon  disappeared  and 
the  rest  of  the  day  was  cloudless  and  exceedingly  hot. 

The  goats  and  rice  dispatched,  the  boys  took  to 
playing  the  graceful  and  musical  native  game  of  ball. 
At  four  o’clock  the  school  bell  rang  vigorously  and  I 
hurried  over  to  the  compound  to  see  whether  it  was 
a fire  or  what.  To  my  surprise  the  boys  were  about 
to  serve  afternoon  tea,  on  which  occasion  the  pastries 
of  the  previous  day  played  an  important  part.  One 


Christmas  at  Old  Umtali 


107 


table  was  set  for  the  girls  and  women  and  another  for 
the  boys.  Mutisiswa  looked  up  with  a shy  smile  (she 
and  Philip  were  not  engaged  then),  Marita  beamed 
with  satisfaction  and  a happy  tea  party  was  soon  in 
session. 

At  six  o’clock  the  wash-boiler  was  put  on  the  stove 
in  my  kitchen.  When  the  water  boiled,  I put  in  a 
half  a pound  of  tea,  three  or  four  tins  of  milk  and 
sugar  enough  to  make  it  real  sweet.  In  the  mean- 
time, Stephen  was  getting  the  tables  set  again  in  the 
schoolroom,  and  one  extra  table  near  the  door  was  set 
— unknown  to  me  but  with  Benjamin’s  supervision — 
with  my  table-cloth  and  dishes,  and  when  I went  over 
to  see  if  everything  was  all  right  Daniel  politely 
bowed  me  to  a seat  at  that  table  where  I was  soon 
joined  by  Mr.  Springer  and  the  Lawrence  family. 

Stephen  was  head  waiter  and  master  of  ceremonies. 
Years  of  experience  working  for  whites  had  made 
both  him  and  Samuel  expert  table  waiters.  These 
two  were  also  able  to  manage  the  small  boys.  We  all 
laughed  most  heartily  to  hear  Stephen  as  he  passed 
the  biscuits,  say,  “Take  one,”  in  English,  nor  would 
they  have  dared  take  more  at  each  passing. 

They  ate  a little  and  sang  much  that  evening. 
Beaching  over  to  one  of  the  bouquets,  Benjamin  took 
some  sprigs  of  bright  purple  boganvilliar  and  put  it 
in  his  hair  and  over  his  ears.  Others  followed  his  ex- 
ample until  nearly  every  woolly  head  was  brilliantly 
and  sometimes  grotesquely  ornamented  with  flowers. 
Daniel  usually  led  the  singing  as  he  was  best  able  to 
pitch  a tune  and  carry  it  through,  wrhich  is  quite  an 
achievement  when  there  are  at  least  twenty  lusty 
singers  who  know  neither  the  tune  nor  the  words. 


108  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Jim  got  up  and  recited  eighteen  verses  of  the  tenth 
of  John,  in  English,  to  the  great  admiration  of  the 
boys  while  Gumba,  his  “friend,”  dropped  her  eyes 
on  the  table  as  if  blinded  by  his  brilliancy.  Charley 
Potter,  being  our  best  reader,  gave  us  the  poem, 
“Hark  what  mean  those  holy  voices,”  in  English, 
and  then  the  whole  crowd  sang  it  lustily  in  the  ver- 
nacular. Others  read  and  recited  both  English  and 
Chikaranga.  And  thus  with  fresh  relays  of  tea  three 
hours  passed  merrily  away.  Then  they  rose,  sang 
the  doxology  and  asked  for  the  benediction,  which 
was  no  sooner  given  than  Daniel,  without  the  least 
irreverence  on  his  part,  called  for  three  cheers  and  a 
tiger. 

We  had  all  had  one  of  the  merriest  of  Merry  Christ- 
mases. 


XX 

WHEN  GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 


MISSIONARIES  are  quite  as  human  as  other 
people, — in  fact  a little  more  so  owing  to 
the  narrow  circle  of  social  life  in  which  they 
are  placed.  Moreover,  they  do  not  (as  is  so  often  sup- 
posed) spend  all  their  time  in  teaching  the  poor 
heathen  the  way  to  heaven, — that  is  not  directly. 

Usually  there  isn’t  anything  the  missionary  has 
ever  learned  to  do  in  his  life  that  he  doesn’t  have  to 
do  again  on  the  foreign  field,  particularly  in  a primi- 
tive field  like  Africa.  And  in  addition  to  these,  he 
has  to  turn  his  hand  to  half  a hundred  things  of  which 
he  never  dreamt. 

One  of  the  first  things  this  missionary  of  whom  I 
write  had  to  do  on  the  field  was  to  drive  a span  of 
oxen,  eight  yoke  to  the  span.  Then  the  oxen  all  died 
of  Red  Water  Fever  and  donkeys  took  their  place. 
Not  a few  of  them  shuffled  off  their  leather  reims  with 
pyemia  and  the  rest  still  remain  in  the  service.  This 
story  has  to  do  with  the  ones  which  survived. 

There  were  two  white  men,  both  Yankees,  hailing 
from  the  Middle  West : they  both  had  the  unmistaka- 
ble Yankee  twang  and  Yankee  drawl : moreover  they 
were  both  endowed  by  nature  with  the  enjoyment  of 
driving  a sharp  bargain  : and  they  had  both  been 
bred  on  the  prairies  where  they  had  known  the  joy 
of  swapping  horses  : and  they  met  in  Africa. 

109 


no  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

The  one  was  a road-maker  for  the  Chartered  Com- 
pany and  the  other  a clerical  looking  missionary. 
The  road-builder  had  two  span  of  donkeys,  eighteen 
in  each  span,  while  the  missionary  was  at  the  head 
of  a mission  which  owned  one  span.  In  the  course 
of  his  going  and  coming,  the  missionary  often  passed 
the  other  on  the  road,  and  as  is  the  custom  of  Western 
men,  usually  stopped  his  mule  for  a few  words  of 
friendly  chat. 

“ I say,’7  drawled  the  road-builder  as  they  met  one 
hot  day,  “ don’t  want  to  trade  a donkey,  do  you  ? ” 

Inwardly  the  instincts  and  training  of  twenty  years 
ago  made  the  missionary  prick  up  his  ears  and  an- 
swer cautiously,  even  indifferently  as  he  flicked  an 
imaginary  fly  off  the  mule’s  back,  “01  don’t  know. 
Hadu’t  thought  of  it.” 

The  road-builder  squirted  out  a mouthful  of  tobacco 
juice,  pushed  back  his  hat,  took  a sight  with  one  eye 
on  the  distant  range  of  mountains,  cleared  his  throat 
and  said,  “Wa-al,  yer  see  it’s  this  way  : I’ve  only 
one  white  donkey  in  my  lot  and  I noticed  the  other 
day  ’s  your  team  wus  goin’  by  that  you’d  only  one 
white  donkey  in  your  span.  I hate  to  see  donkeys 
odd  mated  an’  I thought  I’d  just  speak  to  you  ’n’ 
mebbe  we  could  trade  if  it’s  all  the  same  to  you.” 

“ Well,”  said  the  other,  still  with  true  Yankee  cau- 
tion, “I’ll  be  back  this  way  to-morrow  and  I’ll  take 
a look  at  the  one  you  want  to  trade  and  then  we’ll  see 
about  it.” 

“ All  right,”  said  the  road-builder  as  he  turned 
back  to  his  work  and  the  other  drove  on  with  an  in- 
ward chuckle.  He  knew  only  too  well  that  his  white 
donkey  was  the  biggest,  finest  looking  donkey  in  his 


When  Greek  Meets  Greek 


1 1 1 


span.  And  he  knew  that  that  was  what  had  struck 
his  compatriot’s  eye  and  not  the  sesthetic  desire  to 
have  a well-mated  team.  He  also  knew  that  the 
white  donkey  was  the  laziest  one  in  the  lot.  More 
than  once  it  had  been  suggested  that  the  white 
donkey  be  hitched  with  his  head  to  the  wagon  in 
which  case  the  rest  of  the  span  at  least  would  be 
saved  the  trouble  of  pulling  him  along.  Anything 
with  four  legs  which  could  hold  up  the  reims  in 
Whitey’s  place  was  sure  to  be  a bargain. 

He  had  not  spent  years  on  the  Dakota  prairies  for 
nothing.  When  he  came  back  and  saw  the  poor, 
shabby  little  brown  donkey  to  be  swapped  for  the 
big  white,  he  knew  his  conclusions  were  correct. 
However,  he  leisurely  concluded  the  bargain  and  the 
shabby  little  mare  held  up  the  reims  in  Whitey’s 
place,  did  twice  the  work  and  in  the  course  of  six 
months  presented  the  mission  a nice  little  foal. 

Some  time  later  as  the  missionary  was  passing  by, 
he  said,  “ Haven’t  got  another  donkey  you  want  to 
trade,  have  you?  ” 

“Dunno’s  I have,”  replied  the  road-builder  medi- 
tatively, “ unless,”  he  added  again,  putting  his  foot 
up  onto  the  hub  of  the  wheel  and  spitting  sidewise 
into  the  middle  of  the  road,  “ unless  it’s  that  white 
one.” 

“He  is  kinder  lazy,  isn’t  he?”  replied  the  mis- 
sionary in  a confirmatory  tone. 

“Yes,”  shortly  added  the  other,  “but,”  as  if 
speaking  out  his  mental  vindication  of  his  own  case, 
“ the  other  was  a kinder  lazy  critter  too.” 

Five  years  have  passed  and  there’s  another  road- 
builder  on  that  job  now,  but  the  last  time  the  mis- 


112  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

sionary  passed  that  way  there  was  a white  donkey 
with  a big  cow* bell  on  his  neck  out  at  grass  by  the 
side  of  the  road.  He  had  never  been  seen  in  the 
span.  And  so  long  as  the  Yankee  stayed  on  the 
road-building  job,  he  had  one  big,  white  donkey 
which  he  was  willing  to  trade  for  anything  of  the 
long- eared  species. 


XXI 

BUYING  A TROUSSEAU 


KADUKU’S  bare  feet  made  only  a slight 
swishing  sound  as  he  swiftly  descended  the 
three  steps  which  led  from  the  mission 
home  kitchen  down  into  the  room  where  he  had  his 
bed.  It  was  a crude  sort  of  bed  made  of  old  pro- 
vision box  boards  nailed  onto  two  poles  while  four 
sticks  nailed  onto  the  corners  acted  as  posts.  It  was 
a very  rude  production  but  the  pride  of  Kaduku’s 
heart.  He  had  made  it  himself.  To  be  sure  the  legs 
were  a bit  unsteady  and  every  now  and  then  they 
collapsed  entirely,  when  they  had  to  be  reset  with 
much  ostentation  and  vigorous  hammering.  So 
much  the  better.  It  only  the  better  demonstrated 
to  his  fellows  that  he,  Kaduku,  the  Little  One,  could 
hammer. 

Kaduku7  s bed  was  neatly  spread  with  three  blan- 
kets and  the  crowning  feature  was  a straw  pillow  on 
which  was  a gaily  coloured  pillow-case.  Around  the 
room  were  various  pictures  tacked  up  on  the  wall. 
Some  were  Sunday-school  roll  pictures  which  Charley 
had  given  him,  some  were  those  he  had  taken  out  of 
old  magazines  ; they  were  of  infinite  variety,  ranging 
from  Abraham  on  the  Plains  of  Mamre  to  the  latest 
races  taken  from  “The  Graphic,77  while  the  highly- 
coloured  print  of  King  Edward  and  Queen  Alexandria 
stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  ultra  marine  wall. 

113 


114  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Kaduku  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  drew  out  a little 
tin  trunk  in  which  his  Sunday  clothes  and  his  hoarded 
wealth  were  kept,  but  not  always  secure.  He  had 
once  taken  in  a passing  friend  to  sleep  with  him 
and  the  friend  had  got  away  with  six  of  Kaduku’ s 
precious  gold  sovereigns.  It  was  a heavy  blow  for 
the  generous-hearted  youth  to  be  repaid  with  such 
treachery,  so  he  had  kept  the  trunk  securely  locked 
and  wore  the  key  about  his  neck  thereafter. 

He  had  been  saving  ever  since  and  now  had  ten  of 
these  bright  pieces  for  a special  purpose.  He  also 
took  out  his  Sunday  clothes,  a rusty  black  and  a 
most  unbecoming  suit,  but  the  pride  of  his  heart. 
Hid  not  the  Mufundises  wear  black  on  Sunday  1 And 
had  he  not  risen  to  the  dignity  of  Interpreter  ? If 
then  his  teachers  wore  black  as  a fitting  apparel  for 
the  Sabbath  day,  he  must  wear  it  also. 

Dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  his  leather  shoes 
and  socks,  he  put  the  precious  gold  coins  in  a purse 
and  hurried  out  into  the  white,  hot  sunlight  for  a ten 
mile  walk  to  town. 

I can  see  him  now  as  he  went  down  the  road  swing- 
ing his  stocky  little  figure  from  side  to  side  with  a 
most  self-important  swagger. 

There  are  two  kind  of  stores  to  be  found  in  all 
European  towns  in  Africa, — the  so-called  Kaffir  Store 
where  only  the  natives  and  Indians  trade  and  the 
White  Stores  where  the  Europeans  deal  and  where 
large  profits  are  also  gathered  from  a native  trade. 
Many  of  the  white  men  will  curse  the  Kaffir  roundly 
and  the  mission  which  1 1 pampers  him  so  that  he  gets 
above  his  place.”  But  if  he  comes  into  the  same 
man’s  store  with  a handful  of  yellow  sovereigns  in 


Buying  a Trousseau  1 1 5 

his  pocket, — why  that1  s only  business.  This  same 
man  will  spend  a whole  morning  waiting  on  such  a 
native,  taking  down  everything  he  has  on  his  shelves 
and  showing  him,  for  the  time  being,  all  the  defer- 
ence that  he  would  to  the  mayor  or  the  president  of 
the  local  bank. 

Kaduku  knew  a man  who  kept  one  of  the  best 
stores  for  whites  and  straight  to  him  he  went. 

“ Good-morning,  Kaduku, 11  exclaimed  the  young 
man  genially.  He  knew  the  short,  stubby  little  fel- 
low well  from  frequent  visits  to  the  mission. 

“Good-morning,  sir,”  was  the  polite  reply. 

“Well,  what  can  I do  for  you  this  morning?  ” he 
asked. 

“ I wish  to  make  purchase  of  some  lady’s  dress,” 
said  Kaduku. 

“ Eight  you  are,”  was  the  retort.  “ Well,  I’ve  got 
just  what  you  want.  Do  you  want  a suit  or  a skirt  ? ’ ’ 

“ I think  I should  like  to  see  some  blouse  and  some 
skirts,  sir,”  was  the  reply. 

Kaduku  was  no  raw  Kaffir  to  have  anything 
palmed  off  on  him.  He  had  spent  weeks  thinking 
over  this  thing  and  knew  pretty  well  what  he  wanted. 
But  fortunately  for  him  with  his  rather  limited 
vocabulary  relating  to  ladies’  garments,  the  manager 
of  the  store  also  knew  about  what  would  suit  Kaduku. 
He  was  willing  to  spend  three  or  even  four  hours 
with  him  if  need  be.  But  owing  to  the  mutual  in- 
telligence of  both  parties,  it  only  took  about  an  hour 
for  the  transfer  of  the  most  of  the  golden  sovereigns 
to  the  till  and  the  wrapping  of  an  immense  bundle 
which  looked  half  the  size  of  Kaduku  himself. 

Kaduku  made  one  more  purchase,  a brass  ring  gilt- 


1 1 6 Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

washed  which  he  put  in  his  vest  pocket  ; then 
shouldering  his  bundle  he  started  back  over  the 
mountain  range  for  Old  Umtali,  the  happiest  boy  in 
all  that  section. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  as  he  arrived  at  the  mis- 
sion home.  Jim  Gigita  had  the  fire  built  and  the 
kettle  merrily  boiling  towards  the  master’s  supper  in 
the  large  roomy  kitchen. 

Kaduku  hastily  divested  himself  of  the  sweltering 
rusty  black  clothes  and  the  shoes  which  pinched  his 
unaccustomed  feet  and  the  socks  which  were  the  sure 
mark  of  his  being  a well  dressed  gentleman  and  then 
he  spread  out  his  purchases  before  the  admiring  gaze 
of  his  most  intimate  friend  Jim  whom  he  had  known 
since  the  days  when  Jim  herded  Mr.  Ehnes’  cow  near 
Umtali. 

Jim’s  eyes  fairly  bulged  with  astonishment  as  he 
gazed  at  the  marvellous  array  of  finery  while  he 
rattled  off  a stream  of  ejaculations  and  favourable 
comments  which  would  have  led  any  hearer  to  think 
that  there  was  the  worst  kind  of  a row  going  on.  I 
used  to  step  to  the  door  frequently  to  see  if  there  were 
a fight  in  the  kitchen  until  I got  used  to  Jim’s  way  of 
talking.  Brown’s  bulldog  at  Broken  Hill  used  to 
growl  most  viciously  at  me  every  time  I saw  him  and 
at  first  filled  me  with  terror  for  he  was  a most  savage 
looking  brute.  u Don’t  be  afraid  of  him,  that’s  only 
his  way  of  talking,”  his  master  said.  So  it  was  : he’d 
trot  along  with  me  down  to  the  house  growling  all 
the  way.  He  was  perfectly  harmless  and  good- 
natured.  And  so  was  Jim. 

Then  Kaduku  called  in  the  master  and  lastly  the 
missis  who  marvelled  most  of  all  as  she  compared 


n7 


Buying  a Trousseau 

the  fine  array  with  her  own  simple  wardrobe.  That 
black  broadcloth  skirt  in  the  latest  style  made  her 
four-year-old  flannel  sink  into  insignificance.  That 
handsome  red  blouse  she  had  priced  herself  on  her 
last  trip  to  town  but  her  purse-strings  were  two 
short.  Then  there  were  a pink  petticoat  and  a blue 
petticoat,  a tailored  wash  blouse  and  other  articles 
of  finery. 

The  next  Sunday  the  black  skirt  and  red  blouse 
appeared  at  morning  service.  I was  playing  the 
opening  hymn  at  the  time  and  so  only  noted  out  of 
the  corner  of  my  eye  that  something  was  not  quite 
right.  As  I sat  facing  the  audience,  I saw  later  that 
the  blouse  was  worn  hind  side  fore.  Being  made  to 
hook  up  behind,  it  was  found  more  convenient  to 
hook  it  in  front.  Such  details  do  not  matter.  The 
petticoats  were  worn  as  dress  skirts.  The  next  time 
I saw  the  rich  broadcloth,  the  owner  had  it  on  while 
washing  out  a cooking  pot  in  the  back  yard.  She 
wore  no  apron  and  my  New  England  conscience 
shrank  from  the  desecration.  But  Mukonyerwa  and 
Kaduku  were  perfectly  happy.  So  long  as  Mukon- 
yerwa was  dressed  in  the  best  clothes  of  any  girl  on 
the  station,  it  mattered  not  to  them  what  was  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  put  on. 


xxn 


MUKONYERWA 

THE  first  time  I saw  Mukonyerwa  was  at  her 
grandfather’s  kraal.  Jacob,  her  brother, 
had  been  in  attendance  upon  the  old  man 
from  the  first  of  his  illness.  Now  his  mother, 
Muledzwa  and  his  Aunt  Shikanga  had  arrived  on 
the  scene  to  cook  the  old  man’s  food  so  that  he  would 
not  be  unduly  hurried  out  of  this  world  by  any  of  his 
forty  more  or  less  devoted  wives.  So  Mukonyerwa 
and  her  little  sister,  Nenu,  came  with  the  mother. 

Shikanga’ s daughter,  Basi,  her  niece,  Gumba,  an- 
other one  of  the  cousins,  Shakedi  (whom  I was  continu- 
ally confounding  with  Shakeni  so  I called  her  by  her 
second  name  of  Metapudzwa)  and  other  girls  spent 
the  half  of  their  time  with  me.  So  when  the  new 
cousin  arrived,  they  rushed  her  off  and  the  whole 
crowd  came  around  the  corner  of  the  big  boulder 
with  loud  shouts  and  boisterous  laughing  to  introduce 
her  to  the  Missisi  Mufundisi. 

Of  the  group  of  girls,  all  of  whom  were  grand- 
daughters of  the  old  king,  Mukonyerwa  was  the  least 
prepossessing.  She  was  then  at  the  awkward  age, 
large  of  frame,  coarse  featured,  bold  and  brazen. 
Whenever  the  girls  were  around,  her  voice  could  al- 
ways be  heard  above  all  the  others.  She  was  as 
wild  as  an  unbroken  colt,  running  and  racing  hither 
and  thither  about  the  kraal,  in  marked  contrast  to 

118 


THE  BELLES  OF  THE  CAPITOL 

Mukonyerwa  next  to  the  last 


Mukonyerwa  119 

her  younger  brother  who  carried  himself  with  the 
quiet  dignity  of  a prince,  indeed. 

Her  clothing  consisted  of  a single  piece  of  cotton 
cloth  so  dirty  that  I do  not  know  if  it  had  originally 
been  white  or  coloured.  Her  whole  person  was  dirty 
and  unkempt. 

After  I went  back  to  the  mission,  she  used  to  come 
and  visit  me  from  time  to  time  as  did  the  other  girls. 
Once  when  she  had  an  ulcer  under  the  eyelid  she  had 
to  come  down  for  Dr.  Gurney  to  treat  her.  She 
stayed  with  me  two  or  more  weeks  at  that  time.  She 
had  on  two  kinds  of  cloth  then,  a piece  of  dark  blue 
which  was  tied  around  her  body  just  under  the  arms 
and  another  most  fantastically  designed  red  one 
which  tied  around  her  neck  and  hung  down  in  the 
back.  The  sister  was  dressed  the  same  way.  The 
two  girls  happened  to  be  present  at  Watapa’s  wed- 
ding and  were  in  a photograph  taken  at  the  time,  the 
large  designs  being  the  most  prominent  thing  in  the 
picture. 

By  this  time  the  girls  had  cleaned  up  considerably 
and  I enjoyed  their  company  and  missed  them  when 
they  were  gone.  Evening  after  evening  they  would 
come  into  my  study  as  soon  as  their  supper  was 
eaten,  sit  down  on  the  floor  near  my  feet  and  say, 
“Missisi,  won’t  you  show  us  some  pictures?”  And 
then  I would  get  out  some  Sunday-school  cards  or 
the  like  and  tell  them  stories  until  I was  completely 
talked  out. 

I shall  never  forget  the  keen,  intense  interest  of 
these  two  girls  as  they  listened  night  after  night  to 
this  same  story. 

But  it  was  four  years  before  Mukonyerwa  came  to 


120  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

us  and  said  she  wanted  to  stay  and  attend  the  school. 
I was  very  ill  in  bed  but  when  they  told  me  that  she 
had  come,  I rejoiced  greatly.  She  had  another  girl 
with  her. 

The  next  day  two  of  Mtasa’ s men  came  to  the 
mission  and  asked  if  the  girls  were  there.  We  told 
them  they  were  and  called  the  girls  out.  They  tried 
to  persuade  the  girls  to  return  when,  with  a dash  of 
the  old  roughness,  they  told  the  men  to  “voetsak” 
(footsak)  a term  of  indignity  used  properly  only  to 
dogs.  It  has  been  rightly  said  that  there  are  few 
white  men  or  natives  in  South  Africa  and  not  a 
single  dog  who  do  not  know  this  word. 

Sweating  under  the  indignity,  the  two  men  went 
away  and  a couple  of  days  later  Gumba’ s stepfather, 
Chimbadzwa,  Nsebe,  who  was  the  king’s  counseller, 
and  another  man  came  down  to  try  and  persuade  the 
girls  to  go  back  with  them.  It  is  a rather  odd  thing 
that  Chimbadzwa  did  not  make  any  protest  against 
Gumba’ s staying.  He  was  bitterly  opposed  to  mis- 
sion work  but  I never  knew  of  his  trying  to  get 
Gumba  away  from  us. 

However,  they  argued  and  threatened  Mukonyerwa 
and  her  friend  until  the  girl  who  came  with  Mukon- 
yerwa went  along  with  them.  But  Mukonyerwa  was 
obdurate.  She  said  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  wanted  to  learn  and  nothing  could  induce  her  to 
go  back. 

A few  days  more  and  Mtasa  himself  with  Muledzwa 
and  some  thirty  of  the  king’s  retainers  armed  with 
spears  appeared  on  the  scene.  It  began  to  look 
serious.  Mtasa  asked  that  all  the  missionaries  on 
the  place  be  assembled  and  that  there  be  an  open 


Mukonyerwa  121 

hearing.  Doubtless  he  thought  that  his  display  of 
arms  would  make  an  impression. 

The  court  was  called  and  the  girl  came  fearlessly 
before  them  and  stoutly  reiterated  her  determination 
to  remain  where  she  was.  She  told  them  frankly 
that  she  had  not  taken  the  step  hastily  but  had  been 
meditating  coming  to  the  mission  for  a long  time. 

Muledzwa  in  hot  temper  charged  the  mission  with 
having  sent  Kaduku  to  preach  in  the  kraal  and  then 
secretly  induce  the  girl  to  come  to  the  mission.  This 
Mukonyerwa  denied.  u I love  Kaduku,”  she  said 
candidly,  1 1 and  I mean  to  marry  him.  But  I did 
not  come  here  because  he  was  here.  I had  made  up 
my  mind  to  come  in  any  case  before  he  spoke  to  me 
about  marriage.  And  I should  stay  here  just  the 
same  even  if  something  should  prevent  my  marrying 
him.”  A statement  which  she  afterwards  proved. 

Finding  she  could  not  move  her  daughter  either 
by  appeal  or  by  threat,  Muledzwa  turned  and  went 
off  up  the  road  raging  in  true  heathenish  fashion. 
She  filled  the  air  with  her  imprecations  and  threat- 
enings. 

The  king,  on  the  other  hand,  while  he  was  angry 
and  chagrined,  saw  a row  of  lemon  trees  which 
aroused  his  cupidity.  He  was  an  inveterate  beggar 
whenever  any  opportunity  presented  itself.  So  now 
he  pocketed  his  wrath  in  his  smart  riding  suit  which 
was  his  favourite  attire  and  humbly  asked  for  a 
lemon.  Of  course  he  got  several  as  did  all  of  his 
men. 

In  the  meantime,  Kaduku  had  come  to  * Mr. 
Springer  and  asked  permission  to  consider  Mukon- 
yerwa as  his  financee.  The  consent  being  given,  he 


122  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

took  the  famous  trip  to  Umtali  to  buy  her  some 
clothes  worthy  of  civilization. 

I used  to  regret  the  tendency  of  the  girls  to  get  at 
once  into  European  clothes.  Clothed  they  surely 
needed  to  be  but  it  seemed  to  me  this  could  better  be 
accomplished  by  some  oriental  style  of  dress  more 
hygienic  than  our  occidental  one. 

I think  now  that  the  existing  circumstances  and 
the  contact  the  Africans  have  with  white  women,  not 
only  justify  but  commend  a European  style  of  cloth- 
ing. One  bright,  highly  educated  young  woman  of 
another  part  of  Africa  said  that  she  had  never 
known  a mission  girl  to  go  back  to  heathenism  as 
long  as  she  wore  her  foreign  clothing.  But  if  she 
lapsed,  the  first  sign  of  it  was  a return  to  the  native 
garment  or  loin  cloth. 

Six  months  later  Mr.  Springer  was  passing  through 
Muledzwa’s  kraal.  She  was  in  her  gardens  and 
when  she  saw  him,  called  out.  She  told  him  she 
was  very  glad,  indeed,  that  her  daughter  was  in 
the  school.  She  was  proud  of  the  girl’s  sewing  (and 
it  was  something  any  mother  might  be  proud  of). 
Was  he  going  back  to  Old  Umtali  now?  She 
would  show  him  a better  ford  than  the  one  he  came 
by  and  she  went  in  person  a mile  or  so  to  do  it. 
Later  on  she  asked  that  a native  teacher  might  be 
sent  to  her  kraal  and  she  wanted  Mukonyerwa. 
However,  her  wish  was  not  granted.  Her  son  Jacob 
was  sent  there  instead. 

The  path  of  true  love  did  not  run  smooth  for 
Mukonyerwa  and  the  end  of  her  first  romance  came 
at  Kaduku’s  death.  But  she  kept  her  word  and  re- 
mained in  the  mission,  refusing  all  of  the  many  other 


Mukonyerwa  1 23 

offers  of  marriage  made  to  her  during  the  next  year. 
She  also  continued  to  wear  the  red  blouse  sometimes 
hooked  up  in  front  and  sometimes  in  the  back 
until  her  cousin  Benjamin,  who  had  a better  knowl- 
edge of  how  white  people  dressed,  invested  in  a 
black  satine  blouse,  a black  skirt  and  black  petticoat 
which  he  gave  her,  a costume  as  unbecoming  to  the 
dark-skinned  maiden  as  it  was  gloomy. 

Finally  she  settled  on  one  of  her  many  lovers  and 
spoke  the  comforting  word  to  Stephen  who  at  once 
hastened  to  tell  Mr.  Springer  who  had  also  been  be- 
sieged by  the  disappointed  suitors  to  intercede  for 
them  until  he  was  weary  of  them. 

Two  years  ago  she  and  Stephen  were  married  and 
have  since  been  in  charge  of  an  out  station.  In  one 
of  his  last  letters,  Solomon,  in  giving  the  general 
news,  wrote,  u Mukonyerwa  he  got  son.” 


XXIII 


KADUKU,  THE  LITTLE  ONE 

KADUKU,  as  we  called  him,  had  the  distinc- 
tion of  being  the  first  boy  in  the  school. 
Small  beginnings  must  not  be  despised  by  a 
missionary.  Mr.  Greeley  started  the  school  at  Old 
Umtali  in  1900  with  the  one  pupil,  a youth  who  was 
working  as  second  boy  in  his  kitchen.  Long  Jake 
soon  doubled  the  enrollment.  The  next  year  there 
were  six  or  more.  Then  came  a lot  of  piccaninnies 
from  Mtasa’s  and  so  on  until  the  last  report  in  1908 
showed  about  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  boys  and 
seventy -five  girls. 

Kaduku  was  not  the  first  convert : that  blessing 
was  Charley  Potter’s.  But  he  was  one  of  the  first 
converts  and  certainly  one  of  the  noblest  Christian 
characters  we  had. 

He  came  to  the  mission  straight  from  the  kraal  and 
wanted  to  work.  He  knew  nothing  about  school,  but 
he  did  know  about  money  and  wanted  it.  So  he  was 
engaged  and  set  to  scrubbing  floors,  which  he  did  with 
the  same  energy  which  was  manifested  in  everything 
through  his  short  life.  Soon  he  got  to  be  the  cook  in 
the  house  and  the  interpreter  in  the  mission,  the  first 
one  we  had.  He  was  wonderfully  clever  in  his  studies. 
No  boy  could  come  near  him  in  his  knowledge  of 
English.  He  was  hopeless  in  mathematics,  and 
Daniel,  who  only  knew  half  as  much  and  taught  by 
main  strength,  was  worth  two  of  him  as  a teacher. 

124 


Kaduku,  the  Little  One  125 

He  was  a funny  shaped  little  fellow.  In  a nice 
shirt  and  snowy  loin  cloth,  he  passed  as  a fine  look- 
ing boy.  But  the  rusty  black  suit  and  not  too  well 
fitting  pants  exaggerated  his  peculiar  build  and  made 
him  almost  grotesque  in  appearance. 

His  was  one  of  the  sunniest  dispositions  I ever 
knew.  He  was  always  cheerful  and  laughing  up  to 
the  time  he  became  formally  engaged  to  Mukon- 
yerwa  whose  tall,  well  built  figure  accentuated  his 
own  shortness. 

The  trouble  was  that  her  mother  and  uncle  being 
of  the  royal  family,  did  not  consider  Kaduku,  who 
was  the  son  of  a common  man,  as  her  equal.  More- 
over there  had  been  some  difficulty  in  years  gone  by 
due  to  an  intermarriage  of  the  two  families,  and  the 
feud  had  been  handed  down.  Kaduku’ s own  people 
were  the  first  to  raise  their  voices  against  the  match. 
His  father  and  mother  and  uncle  came  down  to  the 
mission  to  see  him  about  it  for  they  feared  the  king 
would  make  trouble  for  them.  Then  they  wanted 
Kaduka  to  come  up  to  his  kraal  where  the  matter 
could  be  talked  out.  He  went  up  with  them,  a dis- 
tance of  twenty-five  miles,  and  he  was  not  very  used 
to  walking  on  the  trail.  That  night  when  he  ought 
to  have  slept,  they  all  gathered  round  him,  and  the 
whole  family  history  was  rehearsed  over  and  over 
again.  They  told  him  that  if  he  married  Mukonyerwa 
they  must  give  his  sister  to  Mtasa  for  one  of  his  wives. 
They  told  of  threats  of  the  king  which  had  reached 
their  ears.  They  related  most  horrible  stories  of 
blood-curdling  witchcrafts  which  had  been  known  to 
be  visited  on  those  who  committed  a similar  offense 
to  that  of  Kaduku  marrying  Mukonyerwa. 


126  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Could  he  but  have  laid  down  and  snatched  even  an 
hour’s  sleep,  his  sunny  spirit  and  faith  in  God  would 
have  risen  above  it  all.  Perhaps  they  knew  that,  so 
they  kept  tormenting  him  until  he  promised  that  he 
would  go  back  to  Old  Umtali  the  next  morning  and 
cancel  the  engagement. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  he  arrived,  his  whole  body 
shaking  with  nervousness,  his  eyes  bloodshot  and  his 
talk  almost  incoherent.  It  was  impossible  to  follow 
what  he  said.  He  knew  no  English  to  express  the 
situation  and  even  tripped  and  stumbled  over  his 
mother  tongue. 

We  did  our  best  to  help  him  and  get  affairs  straight- 
ened out  but  it  was  useless,  as  we  knew  afterwards. 
That  fifty  mile  walk  and  that  horrible  night  had  got 
in  their  work.  He  complained  continually  of  being 
tired  and  often  showed  signs  of  being  very  dull.  We 
could  not  think  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  To 
all  outward  appearances,  he  and  Mukonyerwa  were 
on  as  good  terms  as  ever.  With  her  usual  strength 
of  character,  she  had  refused  to  pay  any  attention  to 
the  objections  of  her  mother  or  uncle,  and  after  a while 
both  families  withdrew  all  objections  to  the  marriage. 

But  Kaduku  began  to  decline  rapidily  in  health 
until  Mr.  Springer  finally  sent  him  to  the  best  phy- 
sician in  Umtali,  who  gave  him  a thorough  examina- 
tion but  could  find  nothing  serious  the  matter  with 
him.  Still  he  continued  to  droop.  He  no  longer 
was  able  to  take  any  pleasure  even  in  his  old  bicycle 
which  had  been  his  most  boyish  delight. 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  the  curses  which  his 
people  kept  hanging  like  Damocles’  sword  over  his 
head  began  to  affect  his  brain  which  in  a few  months 


Kaduku,  the  Little  One  127 

gave  way  entirely.  We  gave  him  the  best  treatment 
we  could  at  the  mission  but  without  avail. 

Then  his  father  and  mother  arrived  and  said  that 
once  he  had  had  a similar  attack  before  ever  he  came 
to  the  mission  and  they  could  cure  him.  Muledzwa 
came  also  and  urged  that  he  be  allowed  to  go  home 
with  his  parents.  She  seemed  most  solicitous  for  him. 
So  we  let  him  go. 

A week  or  so  later  a messenger  came  in  with  a note 
from  Benjamin  who  had  been  sent  up  to  see  how 
Kaduku  was  getting  along.  “We  got  here  just  in 
time  to  see  Kaduku  die.  We  want  you  to  come 
quick.  We  do  not  want  Kaduku  to  have  heathen 
burial.  We  want  him  taken  to  Old  Umtali.” 

A half  hour  later,  Mr.  Springer  sprang  into  the 
saddle  and  pushed  the  mule  with  all  possible  haste  to 
the  kraal  where  the  loyal  mission  boys  were  staying 
with  Kaduku’ s body.  The  next  morning  they  bore 
his  corpse  onto  the  mission  grounds  amid  a great  hush 
of  sorrow  which  swelled  every  heart. 

That  afternoon  we  gathered  in  the  little  chapel 
where  Kaduku  had  so  often  acted  as  interpreter. 
There  were  not  only  our  own  mission  boys  and  girls 
but  a large  number  of  visitors  from  Kaduku’ s neigh- 
bourhood, natives  who  were  attending  a Christian 
burial  for  the  first  time. 

The  coffin  was  covered  with  plain  white  muslin  and 
heaped  with  beautiful  flowers  gathered  and  placed 
there  by  the  pupils  themselves.  The  hymn  was  an- 
nounced and  the  congregation  solemnly  rose  to  its  feet 
and  began  singing  in  an  exquisite  minor,  “Thou  O 
God  art  Saviour,”  but  the  tune  wavered  and  at  times 
almost  broke  as  one  after  another  voice  failed. 


128  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Emotion  nearly  overcame  the  preacher  as  he  started 
to  give  a short  talk  at  this  his  first  native  Christian 
funeral.  Mukonyerwa’s  head  was  bent  and  she  was 
weeping  silently. 

As  I sat  there  in  that  crowded  church,  my  mind 
went  back  to  the  first  native  funeral  I had  seen  at 
Mtasa’s,  four  years  previously.  I had  been  living  for 
weeks  in  Mtasa’s  kraal  in  the  midst  of  the  drunken, 
fighting,  wrangling  crowd,  so  that  when  the  first 
shrieks  pierced  the  air  that  morning,  I paid  very  little 
attention.  Screaming  women  were  no  novelty. 

Soon,  however,  the  screams  were  taken  up  by  scores 
of  women  and  girls,  who  were  hurrying  past  my  hut, 
and  I hastened  out  to  see  what  could  be  the  matter. 
Every  one  in  the  upper  end  of  the  kraal  seemed  to 
be  rushing  in  one  direction  and  the  air  was  pierced 
with  the  peculiar  scream  of  the  women. 

I put  on  my  hat  and  joined  the  procession,  which 
soon  took  me  to  the  hut  of  a young  man  by  the  name 
of  Benzi,  a son  of  the  old  king.  Here  were  rapidly 
congregating  men,  women  and  children — the  men  and 
boys  silent  and  solemn  ; the  females  were  all  shriek- 
ing in  an  ear-splitting  chorus  with  the  tears  rolling 
down  their  cheeks. 

I sat  there  in  their  midst  and  looked  in  wonder. 
This  was  a new  phase  of  kraal  life  to  me.  There  was 
Miss  Impudence,  one  of  the  boldest,  cheekiest,  most 
shameless  girls  in  the  whole  community,  with  streams 
of  tears  running  down  both  cheeks.  Was  it  sorrow  $ 
Her  love  for  her  cousin  could  hardly  be  as  deep  as  all 
that.  The  Bantu  are  a very  tender-hearted  people 
and  easily  moved  to  sympathy  along  certain  lines,  so 
there  was  doubtless  much  genuine  feeling  in  the  girl’s 


Kaduku,  the  Little  One  129 

violent  demonstration  of  grief.  But  it  wasn’t  all 
grief.  There  was  something  else. 

Now  came  the  Imp  and  the  Terror  ; they  were  little 
girls,  and  at  times  almost  little  fiends.  But  the  pres- 
ence of  death  had  subdued  them  and  they  joined  in 
the  frantic  howling  of  their  friends  and  relatives. 
And  just  here  another  fact  was  impressed  upon  me ; 
the  crowd  was  mostly  made  up  of  relatives.  Why, 
of  course.  The  old  king  had  forty  wives  then  living 
and  no  one  knows  how  many  he  had  had  in  his  long 
reign,  so  of  children  and  grandchildren,  their  wives 
and  husbands  and  their  relations  there  were  so  many, 
that  as  a matter  of  fact  they  were  all  related  to  each 
other. 

On  they  came  in  fresh  relays  by  tens  and  twenties 
and  thirties,  each  new  set  of  arrivals  being  the  signal 
for  a fresh  outburst  of  tears  and  screams.  It  was 
more  than  grief $ it  was  the  superstitious  scream  of 
primitive  man  trying  to  frighten  off  the  evil  spirits 
which  had  at  last  seized  upon  poor  Benzi,  lest  they, 
too,  his  hapless  relatives,  be  carried  off  with  him. 

After  a while  I went  into  the  hut  with  the  mourn- 
ers, not  out  of  curiosity,  but  from  pure  sympathy  and 
sadness.  I had  liked  the  bright  young  fellow  who 
had  made  himself  acquainted  with  us  the  first  day  of 
our  arrival.  And  I could  hardly  realize  that  he  who 
but  two  days  before  had  attended  the  Sunday  service 
and  had  asked  several  interested,  intelligent  ques- 
tions was  thus  snuffed  out  like  the  flame  of  a candle. 

So  I went  in,  expecting  to  see  the  body.  Imagine 
my  horror  to  see  only  a large  roll  of  cloth.  For  no 
sooner  had  the  breath  left  the  dead  man’s  body  than 
they  had  brought  his  knees  up  to  his  chin  and  tightly 


130  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

bound  the  whole  body  in  yards  and  yards  of  un- 
bleached cotton  cloth. 

I got  out  quickly  into  the  air  and  sunshine.  Ah  ! 
there  was  no  mistaking  this  for  anything  else  but 
heathenism.  Oh,  how  I did  wish  I could  talk  to  the 
people  and  comfort  them ! Alas ! At  that  time 
there  were  no  words  which  could  have  conveyed  the 
sentiments  I wanted  so  much  to  express,  for  no  words 
were  to  be  found  in  their  language  for  them.  These 
words  all  had  to  be  coined  outright  or  else  thoroughly 
remodelled  by  the  missionaries. 

So  I could  only  sit  in  silence,  showing  my  sym- 
pathy by  my  presence,  while  the  morning  hours 
rolled  away  and  the  men  were  digging  a grave.  At 
last,  about  high  noon,  the  grave  was  ready  and  so 
was  the  hastily  improvised  litter  on  which  to  carry 
the  body.  For  an  hour  or  so  there  had  been  com- 
parative quiet  except  for  the  wife,  mother  and  sister 
of  the  dead  man.  These  three  had  sat  disconsolately 
just  outside  the  hut  wailing  softly  most  of  the  time. 

But  as  the  litter  approached,  once  more  the  women 
lifted  their  voices  and  the  air  was  again  rent  with 
their  screams.  And  when  the  body  was  brought  out 
of  the  door  there  was  one  frantic,  agonized  outburst 
of  woe  which  would  have  moved  the  hardest  heart. 

Benzi  was  to  be  buried  under  the  shadow  of  a big 
rock  not  far  away.  Half-way  up  there,  the. frenzy  of 
the  women  reached  its  height.  They  threw  them- 
selves on  the  ground  before  the  corpse  and  then  jump- 
ing up,  leaped  into  the  air  beating  themselves  in  a 
very  paroxysm  of  grief  and  terror. 

Then  the  procession  moved  on  amidst  the  wild 
cries  and  gesticulations  until  they  came  to  the  rock. 


Kaduku,  the  Little  One  131 

Here  it  was  found  that  the  grave  was  not  big  enough, 
so  we  all  sat  and  waited  about  an  hour  for  the  work 
to  be  finished.  As  the  natives  had  no  shovels  and 
the  digging  had  to  be  done  with  native  hoes,  it  was  a 
slow  process. 

The  wild  cries  ceased  almost  suddenly  and  the 
women  sat  down  in  hopeless  stolidity.  At  last  the 
body  would  go  in,  and  so  it  was  placed  in  the  hole 
made  for  it  and  the  hole  was  well  walled  up  with  solid 
stone  so  that  the  prowling  leopard  or  scavenger  hyena 
could  not  dig  it  out.  And  then  they  all  quietly  dis- 
persed, cheerless,  comfortless,  apathy  written  on  the 
faces  of  the  chief  mourners. 

Just  one  month  would  be  allowed  the  wife  and 
mother  in  which  to  bemoan  Benzi’s  death.  Then 
they  became  the  property  of  the  next  of  kin. 

Three  weeks  later  I passed  the  hut  where  Benzi 
died  (Charley  Potter  said  he  had  been  murdered  in  a 
drunken  dance  at  his  hut  the  night  before  the  fu- 
neral) and  it  was  being  torn  down.  No  one  would 
live  in  the  same  hut  in  which  he  died.  The  hut  des- 
troyed, the  poor  mother  and  wife  treated  as  human 
chattels  without  souls  or  feelings,  no  hope  for  the 
world  to  come, — this  was  indeed  the  rule  and  reign 
of  evil  spirits ! 

Kaduku’ s funeral  was  a touching  scene.  And  yet 
how  different  from  that  heathen  funeral  we  had  wit- 
nessed at  Mtasa’s  where  frantic  hopelessness  had  held 
sway.  As  we  turned  back  from  the  newly  made 
grave,  there  was  still  ringing  in  our  ears,  u I am  the 
resurrection  and  the  life  : he  that  believeth  on  Me, 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live.” 

We  planted  a scarlet  hybiscus  on  his  grave  in 


I32  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

token  of  our  hope.  Nearly  every  week  Mukonyerwa 
placed  a bouquet  of  flowers  there.  He  being  dead 
yet  speaketh  and  his  testimony  in  his  death  may 
have  been  more  forcible  than  any  sermon  he  might 
have  preached  had  he  lived. 


XXIV 

SUNDAY  AT  GANDANZARA’S 


THEY  have  a splendid  native  out-station  at 
Gandanzara’s  now  and  Daniel  is  in  charge. 
He  has  had  great  success.  Daniel  was  sure 
to  have  success.  As  I said  once  before,  he  literally- 
taught  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  preached  hell- 
fire  and  brimstone.  But  he  was  thoroughly  good  as 
well  as  desperately  in  earnest.  He  was  no  ranter. 

He  was  not  with  us  that  first  time  we  came  to 
Gandanzara’ s kraal.  Although  only  thirty -two  miles 
from  Old  Umtali,  we  had  never  heard  of  the  kraal 
before  as  it  lay  in  a most  out-of-the-way  place  tucked 
in  among  the  mountains.  We  were  looking  for 
M’koni’s  kraal  and  found  Gandanzara’s. 

As  we  approached  the  fields  of  grain  near  the 
kraal,  a well-dressed  young  man  came  to  meet  us  and 
learning  who  we  were,  volunteered  at  once  to  show  us 
a good  camping  place.  He  had  attended  a mission 
night  school  once  himself  for  a few  months  at  Salis- 
bury and  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  U3. 

He  led  us  more  than  a mile  beyond  the  kraal  up  a 
very  steep  mountain  where  there  was  a fine  stream  of 
beautiful  cold  water.  His  choice  of  a camp  site  for 
us  showed  that  he  knew  missionaries  liked  clean 
grass  and  plenty  of  pure  water.  Having  had  to 
camp  the  night  previously  on  a waterless  plain,  we 
appreciated  our  blessings  the  more. 

133 


134  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

As  the  boys  began  cutting  the  grass  to  clear  a 
place  for  our  tent,  one  of  them  suddenly  gave  a cry 
of  alarm.  He  had  almost  stepped  on  a spotted  puff 
adder,  a painting  of  which  Sir  Harry  Johnson  has 
rightly  named,  “Death.”  The  boys  soon  killed  it, 
but  after  that  they  worked  a little  more  carefully  in 
the  tall  grass. 

The  people  were  very  friendly  from  the  first. 
They  said  that  we  were  the  first  white  missionaries 
who  had  ever  come  to  their  kraal.  As  it  was  Satur- 
day night,  Mr.  Springer  got  the  young  guide  to  tell 
them  that  we  wanted  food  and  would  not  buy  on  the 
morrow.  So  in  only  about  an  hour’s  time  after  our 
arrival,  there  came  a stream  of  sellers  and  soon  we 
had  more  food  than  we  could  use  and  had  to  turn 
some  of  them  away.  The  young  man  remained  with 
us  till  late  that  evening  and  acted  as  spokesman  to 
the  people.  Through  him,  Mr.  Springer  announced 
that  he  would  hold  a public  service  at  the  kraal  the 
next  morning. 

The  chief  was  away  when  we  arrived  on  Saturday 
but  Mr.  Springer  met  him  the  next  morning.  He 
was  a fine  appearing  young  man  of  about  forty.  He 
called  his  people  to  the  service  and  fully  two  hundred, 
mostly  men  and  boys,  seated  themselves  in  a large, 
open  space  to  hear  for  the  first  time  the  Gospel  mes- 
sage. They  listened  with  marked  interest  and  respect. 

After  the  service,  Gandanzara  expressed  his  pleas- 
ure that  we  had  paid  him  a visit.  He  said  that  no 
other  missionary  had  ever  come  to  his  kraal  before 
and  asked  if  we  could  not  send  him  a native  teacher 
to  come  and  live  there  among  his  people  all  the  time. 

Before  starting  out  on  this  evangelistic  trip,  the 


Sunday  at  Gandanzara’s  135 

question  of  presents  to  the  native  chiefs  had  been 
discussed.  We  had  no  money  to  put  into  blankets, 
loin  cloths,  etc.,  and  we  decided  that  we  would  try 
another  plan.  We  had  some  new  Gospels  of  John,  a 
translation  by  Mr.  White,  a Wesleyan  of  the  Salisbury 
District.  These  were  in  large  print  and  gayly  bound 
in  scarlet.  So  we  decided  to  present  each  of  the 
chiefs  with  one  of  these  (if  they  would  take  it)  telling 
them  what  it  was,  who  we  were,  to  see  if  we  might 
not  thereby  arouse  curiosity  if  not  interest. 

Our  boys  laughed  at  the  idea  and  insisted  that  the 
chiefs  would  only  use  the  books  to  light  their  pipes 
with  if  they  accepted  them  at  all.  So  it  was  purely 
an  experiment  and  this  was  the  first  opportunity  to 
put  it  in  operation. 

But  for  some  reason,  Gandanzara  refused  to  take 
the  unusual  gift.  He  might  have  thought  it  would 
bewitch  him  or  he  more  likely  wanted  something 
more  useful.  At  any  rate  he  refused  to  accept  it  and 
the  boys  looked  as  much  as  to  say,  “ We  told  you 
so.”  However,  that  afternoon  he  sent  up  one  of  his 
head  men  and  said  he  should  be  very  glad  to  accept 
the  Book  if  we  would  send  it  down  to  him. 

While  Mr.  Springer  and  all  the  eight  boys  were 
down  at  the  kraal,  a crowd  of  women  came  up  and 
routed  me  out  of  the  tent  before  I was  dressed.  They 
had  peanuts,  potatoes,  meal,  pumpkins  and  all  sorts 
of  things  for  sale.  I told  them  I could  not  buy  from 
them  as  it  was  Sunday  but  I would  sing  for  them  and 
teach  them  to  sing.  Perhaps  they  couldn’t  be  blamed 
if  their  savage  breasts  were  not  soothed  with  my 
singing  : I don’t  pose  as  a soloist  but  I did  the  best  I 
could.  No  they  wouldn’t  sing  nor  would  they  listen 


136  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

to  me.  They  were  disappointed  because  I would  not 
buy  from  them  and  so  after  about  an  hour’s  time 
during  which  they  sat  chatting  (whether  I was  talking 
or  not)  about  me  and  the  camp  and  sundry  items  of 
kraal  gossip  while  the  babies  alternately  howled  and 
drew  on  the  maternal  supplies,  they  took  themselves 
off. 

I hastened  then  to  finish  my  toilet  rather  crestfallen 
at  my  failure.  But  when  the  women  got  back  to  the 
kraal  and  heard  all  the  men  talking  about  this  new 
teaching  they  had  heard  that  morning  and  even  the 
chief  discussing  the  sermon  seriously,  I fancy  their 
curiosity  led  them  to  wish  they  themselves  had  kept 
quiet  and  heard  what  the  Mufundisi  had  to  say. 

Mr.  Springer  returned  at  nine  o’  clock  with  a troop 
of  boys  and  young  men  at  his  heels.  We  hardly  had 
opportunity  to  eat  our  breakfast  when  they  began  to 
ask  for  more  singing.  By  ten  the  women  were  all 
back  again  begging  the  Missis  to  sing  for  them. 
They  atoned  for  their  earlier  conduct  by  trying  to 
learn  a hymn  themselves.  We  always  calculate  that 
more  good  can  be  done  by  teaching  the  natives  to 
sing  one  verse  themselves  than  by  singing  the  hymn- 
book  through  from  cover  to  cover  for  them.  One  of 
the  women  said  to  me  apologetically,  “Teach  our 
daughters  here  the  hymn ; they  are  young  and  can 
learn  it;  we  are  too  old.”  There  was  quite  an  ele- 
ment of  truth  in  what  she  said. 

This  reminds  me  of  Bishop  William  Taylor’s  famous 
story  he  used  to  tell  to  illustrate  the  need  of  boarding- 
schools  for  the  training  of  the  native  leaders  of  both 
sexes. 

He  said  that  at  one  time  the  fishes  came  to  the  con- 


137 


Sunday  at  Gandanzara’s 

elusion  that  it  was  their  duty  to  teach  the  lobsters  how 
to  swim  straight  ahead  instead  of  backwards.  So 
they  had  a meeting  and  subsequently  invited  all  the 
lobsters  to  come  to  swimming  school. 

After  a week  they  had  another  meeting  and  were 
unanimous  in  their  opinion  that  they  must  change 
their  methods.  The  old  lobsters  were  not  good  pupils. 
They  were  set  in  their  ways  and  stiff  in  their  joints 
and  didn’t  want  to  learn  the  right  way  of  swimming 
anyhow. 

So  they  said,  “We  won’t  bother  much  with  these 
old  lobsters.  If  they  want  to  come  in,  all  right,  but 
we  will  devote  most  of  our  time  to  the  little  lobsters.” 

So  they  started  a primary  school  and  the  little 
lobsters  turned  out  in  full  force,  and  as  they  were 
limber,  nimble  and  quick  to  learn,  by  the  close  of  the 
first  day  their  teachers  dismissed  them  proudly  as  they 
started  off  for  home  swimming  straight  ahead. 

But  alas  ! When  they  came  back  the  next  morniug 
from  their  caves  and  nooks,  every  last  little  lobster 
was  swimming  backwards.  And  so  it  was  every  day 
for  another  week  until  at  the  end  of  it  the  fishes  had 
another  conference,  when  there  was  another  unani- 
mous motion  carried  that  if  ever  they  were  to  train  up 
these  young  lobsters  as  they  ought  to  be  trained,  they 
must  establish  a boarding-school  where  the  little  lob- 
sters couldn’t  go  home  every  night. 

We  have  learned  in  Africa,  as  well  as  elsewhere, 
that  there  is  no  limit  to  God’s  saving  power.  He  can 
save  the  oldest  or  the  vilest  sinner  and  many  of  them 
have  been  saved.  Moreover,  we  find  that  the  day- 
schools  do  an  immense  amount  of  good.  Not  only  are 
there  thousands  of  children  saved  by  means  of  the  day- 


138  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

schools,  but  they  in  turn  often  lead  their  parents  to 
Christ. 

But  it  is  true  that  in  order  to  train  up  young  men 
and  women  to  be  soul  winners  and  leaders  among  their 
own  people,  we  must  have  the  boarding-schools  where 
they  will  not  be  continually  in  the  atmosphere  and 
influence  of  heathenish  practices  and  superstitions 
during  the  time  of  their  training. 

By  eleven  o’clock  there  were  nearly  a hundred 
natives  seated  around  all  anxious  to  sing.  I sung 
myself  hoarse  and  talked  myself  out  and  then  called 
Mr.  Springer.  He  held  forth  for  another  hour  and 
then  called  Charley.  Philip  then  led  the  singing 
and  the  other  boys  took  turns  in  preaching  until 
after  four  o’clock  when  the  most  of  the  crowd  de- 
parted, only  a few  of  the  young  men  staying  until 
late  in  the  evening  again. 

A few  weeks  later  three  little  boys  from  that  kraal 
came  to  the  mission  school,  but  only  one  stayed. 
The  next  term  a few  of  his  little  kraal  friends  joined 
him.  Each  vacation  the  boys  were  sent  back  to  sow 
the  seed  they  had  gotten  at  the  mission : each  term 
there  were  new  reinforcements. 

Two  years  later  Daniel  took  his  bride  up  there  to 
live.  They  have  had  a great  revival  and  a strong 
native  church  will  be  the  result.  The  women  are 
learning  to  make  decent  dresses  for  themselves  after 
the  pattern  of  the  clothes  worn  by  the  preacher’s 
wife.  A work  of  grace  begun  in  the  heart  never  fails 
to  manifest  itself  in  the  outward  appearance. 


XXV 

WATAPA’S  WEDDING 


WATAPA’S  only  distinction  was  that  he 
was  the  homeliest,  best-natured  boy  in  the 
school  and  that  he  was  the  first  one  to 
have  a wedding,  and  a church  wedding  at  that. 

He  took  his  wedding  in  a most  matter-of-fact  way, 
as  if  it  were  an  every-day  occurrence.  The  cere- 
mony was  to  be  at  five  o’clock,  but  he  did  not  let 
that  interfere  with  his  attending  the  afternoon  session 
of  school. 

We  gathered  promptly  at  the  hour  named  in  the 
little  chapel.  Every  boy  was  there,  all  the  married 
women  and  a few  girl  visitors.  Among  the  very  first 
to  arrive  was  Watapa  and  his  bride  Mulefu,  who 
took  their  places  on  the  front  seat  with  great  solem- 
nity. The  audience,  likewise,  appeared  to  have  come 
to  attend  a funeral.  There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a 
smile,  not  the  faintest  trace  of  mirth  on  a single 
countenance. 

Watapa  had  been  helping  me  translate  the  marriage 
ceremony  for  a week,  so  if  the  translation  was  far 
from  perfect  as  to  the  letter,  he  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  spirit  of  it. 

He  had  purchased  a new  white  pique  dress  for  the 
bride  consisting  of  a skirt  and  jacket  which  was 
closely  buttoned  over  a dirty  gauze  undervest  cov- 
ered at  the  neck  by  an  old  white  silk  handkerchief. 
Watapa  was  arrayed  in  a new  white  duck  suit  and 

139 


140  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

wore  a large  bunch  of  pink  and  white  cosmos  in  his 
coat  lapel. 

The  contracting  parties  having  been  thoroughly 
drilled  previously,  the  ceremony  passed  off  nicely 
without  any  breaks.  After  the  ceremony,  it  was 
necessary  for  papers  to  be  filled  out  to  send  in  to  the 
government. 

While  this  was  being  done,  the  boys  filed  out 
quietly  and  stood  in  two  solemn  rows  on  either  side 
of  the  church  door.  As  Watapa  and  his  wife  came 
out  of  the  church,  the  solemn  lines  broke  and  showers 
of  rice  fell  on  the  newly  wedded  pair  amidst  yells 
which  fairly  rent  the  air. 

Watapa  tried  to  maintain  his  decorum  for  a few 
seconds  only  to  give  way  at  last,  take  to  his  heels 
and  bolt  ignominiously  for  the  boys’  dormitory  leav- 
ing his  bride  to  wend  her  way  alone.  This,  however, 
did  not  seem  to  strike  her  as  being  any  reflection  on 
him  or  breach  of  courtesy  to  herself. 

She  and  her  two  girl  friends  went  back  to  my 
kitchen  where  she  had  put  herself  in  bridal  array, 
stayed  there  perhaps  half  an  hour  and  then  went  over 
to  where  her  husband  had  fled  for  refuge. 

I had  given  them  some  tins  of  biscuits,  tea,  milk 
and  sugar  and  told  them  to  have  a jolly  time.  Soon 
I went  over  to  see  how  they  were  getting  on.  A 
table  was  covered  with  a white  cloth  in  the  small 
room  Watapa  had  shared  with  a half  dozen  other 
boys,  and  Daniel  was  making  tea.  But  they  stoutly 
refused  to  open  either  the  milk  or  the  biscuits.  They 
informed  me  that  they  wanted  them  for  the  feast. 

So  they  drank  their  tea  and  sang  hymns  until  after 
nine  o’clock  when  Mulefu  and  her  two  friends  re- 


Watapa’s  Wedding  141 

turned  and  said  they  wanted  to  sleep  in  my  kitchen, 
though  there  was  a hut  all  fitted  up  for  the  bridal 
couple.  No,  they  wanted  to  stay  with  me,  so  the 
three  girls  slept  in  my  kitchen  and  Watapa  remained 
at  the  dormitory  as  usual. 

Imagine  my  dismay,  however,  when  I found  the 
girls  performing  their  ablutions  in  my  dish  pan  the 
next  morning ! 

That  was  in  the  middle  of  the  week.  For  three 
days  there  was  a little  brown  goat  tied  out  in  front  of 
the  boys’  dormitory  by  day  and  inside  by  night, 
bleating  out  to  the  passers-by  that  he  was  to  be  the 
main  feature  of  the  wedding  feast. 

On  Saturday,  the  tables  were  spread  in  the  school- 
room, covered  with  unbleached  muslin  and  gayly 
decorated  with  flowers.  All  the  biscuits  were  opened 
and  the  wash-boiler  was  impressed  into  service  for  tea. 
Between  the  two  front  windows  a small  table  was 
again  laid  with  linen  and  china  furnished  by  Philip 
from  my  dining-room,  for  the  Wafundisi  (teachers) 
for  whom  a special  pot  of  tea  and  plate  of  biscuits 
were  served.  Another  table  was  set  at  one  side  for 
the  girls  and  women.  The  bride  sat  at  this  and  the 
bridegroom  got  as  far  away  as  he  could.  Indeed, 
after  every  one  else  had  arrived  they  had  to  send  out 
and  hunt  him  up  and  bring  him  in. 

Whether  he  was  overcome  with  a sudden  fit  of 
bashfulness,  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  boys’  merry 
rallying  or  whether  it  were  possible  that  he  had 
actually  forgotten  the  event,  is  hard  to  say.  It  could 
hardly  have  been  the  latter,  as  every  other  native  on 
the  place  had  remembered  and  was  promptly  on 
hand. 


142  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

But  like  some  other  bridegrooms,  he  had  to  be 
hunted  up  and  escorted  to  the  feast.  However,  when 
he  got  there,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  sit  at  all 
near  his  bride.  Neither  would  he  take  a seat  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  He  insisted  on  sitting  among  the 
other  boys  at  the  side  of  one  of  the  long  tables  in  as 
inconspicuous  a place  as  possible. 

For  the  first  half  hour,  the  wedding  party  were  all 
busy  over  plates  of  piled  up  rice,  small  chunks  of 
goat  and  swimming  gravy.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
biscuits  and  tea,  they  prolonged  their  pleasure  by 
singing  hymns.  It  is  one  of  the  marks  of  the  transi- 
tion period  from  the  old  to  the  new  that  the  boys  and 
girls  sing  hymns  when  they  do  not  know  what  else 
to  do. 

Under  the  old  regime,  festal  occasions  consist  chiefly 
of  dancing  and  drinking  intoxicants.  The  dancing  is 
to  the  accompaniment  of  the  big  drum  and  heathen 
songs. 

So  when  we  eliminate  the  dancing  and  beer,  the 
first  things  to  take  their  place  are  the  Christian  hymns. 
This  accounts  for  many  an  otherwise  ludicrous  incon- 
gruity. To  see  Daniel  marching  his  little  band  out 
to  the  field,  their  hoes  on  their  shoulders  in  military 
style,  lustily  singing  u Onward  Christian  Soldiers,” 
might  provoke  a smile  at  first.  But  what  else  could 
they  sing  ? And  when  that  troop  of  girls  came  flying 
out  to  welcome  us  home  after  our  two  months’  absence 
on  an  evangelistic  tour  north  to  the  Zambesi  Biver, 
they  at  once  broke  into  a familiar  hymn  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  occasion  whatever.  The  boys 
heard  it  from  afar  and  joined,  finished  that  hymn 
and  were  well  launched  into  the  “ Christian  Soldiers,” 


Watapa’s  Wedding  143 

by  the  time  they  too  gathered  around  us  to  the  be- 
wilderment of  poor  Jacky  who  thus  feeling  himself 
called  upon  to  make  some  reply  opened  his  mouth 
and  brayed  so  lustily  that  the  singing  was  completely 
broken  up  in  laughter. 

So  at  the  wedding,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  but 
to  sing.  Toasts  were  beyond  them  as  yet  so  they  sung 
the  hymn-book  through  from  cover  to  cover  inter- 
spersing their  songs  with  fresh  cups  of  tea  and  a fresh 
biscuit.  It  was  a clean,  merry,  happy  celebration. 

Unfortunately,  Watapa  had  to  interrupt  his  course 
and  leave  school  and  the  mission  for  a time  to  earn 
money  with  which  to  pay  for  his  wife  or,  in  other 
words,  to  purchase  peace  from  his  wife’s  relatives 
who  were  vexing  his  soul  daily  for  the  usual  “lo- 
bolo  ” which  the  natives  insist  is  only  a proper  gift 
which  the  son-in-law  tenders  as  a mark  of  respect  to 
his  wife’s  father. 

Two  years  later  I received  a letter.  Watapa  had 
written  it  at  Mulefu’s  dictation.  It  is  packed  away 
in  my  goods  in  Africa.  I wish  I could  quote  it  ver- 
batim, but  I can’t.  It  was  such  a pathetic  little  note. 
She  want  ed  the  Missis  to  know  that  the  little  baby 
had  died  and  she  wanted  the  Missis  to  pray  for  her  ? 
And  would  the  Missis  send  her  a book  to  comfort  her. 
She  would  try  to  learn  to  read  a primer  (she  had  been 
hopelessly  thick-headed)  now  the  baby  was  dead.  I 
sent  her  the  Gospel  of  John  and  a primer  containing 
the  Twenty-third  Psalm. 

Just  as  our  carriage  was  crossing  the  mountain  range 
for  the  last  time  on  our  way  to  Umtali  with  our  faces 
turned  homeward,  we  passed  a transport  wagon  at 
Christmas  Pass.  Some  one  called,  and  as  we  stopped 


144  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

the  mule  a woman  came  running  towards  us.  It  was 
Mulefu  with  Watapa  close  behind  her.  She  wanted 
to  tell  me  how  glad  she  was  for  the  Book.  We  were 
deeply  touched  by  their  sincere  regrets  at  our  depar- 
ture and  the  gratitude  they  expressed  for  our  having 
come.  Missionary  work  has,  I think,  the  richest 
compensation  in  the  world. 


FEMALE  ADORNMENTS  IN  NATIVE  STYLES 


XXVI 


SWEET  SIXTEEN 

MY  Black  Lassie  arrives  at  the  mission 
clothed  in  a single  garment  of  uncertain 
age,  guiltless  of  an  acquaintance  with  soap 
and  water.  She  announces  that  she  “has  arrived 
and  wants  to  learn.”  In  nine  out  of  ten  cases  she 
has  run  away  from  her  kraal.  This  means  that  she 
will  be  followed  by  irate  parents  and  other  relatives 
who  will  keep  her  and  the  powers  that  be  in  the 
mission  interested  for  a week  or  so.  In  the  end  they 
usually  depart  and  time  works  reconciliation. 

If  she  has  any  friends  in  the  school,  they  will  im- 
mediately lend  her  their  clothes  and  the  next  day  she 
comes  out  rigged  up  in  the  most  absurd  style  but 
feeling  very  proud  of  herself  and  of  her  new  book 
and  slate  and  eager  for  instruction. 

Everything  is  so  new, — so  delightfully  new  and 
fascinating  ! She  has  stepped  from  the  grimy,  smoky, 
filthy  darkness  of  the  kraal  life  into  a fairy-land  where 
the  people  live  in  amazing  houses  and  the  men  eat  with 
their  wives.  It  all  seems  so  odd  ! Her  whole  being 
thrills  with  girlish  happiness  and  she  is  a transformed 
girl.  Her  laugh  rings  out  merrily  in  chorus  with  the 
others, — and  the  laugh  of  Sweet  Sixteen  in  any  land 
defies  imitation. 

She  joins  heartily  in  the  singing,  not  at  all  ham- 
pered by  the  fact  that  she  knows  neither  the  tune  nor 

145 


146  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

the  words.  She  will  learn  them  both  in  half  the  time 
it  took  her  brother,  who  is  in  the  boys’  school,  to 
do  so. 

When  she  hears  the  other  girls  pray,  she  wants  to 
pray  too  ; for  she  has  the  intuitive  feeling  which  she 
could  not  define  that  it  is  prayer  which  makes  the 
school  what  it  is  and  the  girls  what  they  are.  So  it 
will  be  but  a few  weeks  before  she  will  be  praying  in 
public  herself.  Happily,  to  her,  prayer  is  prayer 
and  she  has  not  come  to  the  point  of  making  excuses 
for  not  seizing  all  opportunities  for  it  as  they  come. 

In  short,  she  is  ready  to  learn  to  do  anything  the 
other  girls  do.  She  is  even  willing  to  do  her  share 
of  the  hoeing  and  digging  : though  having  had  little 
else  to  do  before  in  her  life,  she  likes  that  least  of  all. 

But  oh  ! how  much  there  is  for  her  to  learn  ! To 
be  prompt,  and  quick  and  clean  and  truthful ! To 
learn  the  value  of  time ! Ah  ! Her  teacher  needs 
infinite  patience  on  that  score ! It  will  take  years 
for  her  to  learn  some  of  these  lessons.  She  is  not 
built  that  way,  nor  were  her  mothers  before  her  for 
countless  generations. 

She  learns  to  read  and  write  with  remarkable  ra- 
pidity. A few  months’  lessons  with  the  needle  will 
enable  her  to  excel  many  an  American  girl  of  her 
age.  For  Sweet  Sixteen’ s sewing  lessons  are  prac- 
tical— dressmaking,  darning,  mending  and  fine 
needle-work. 

Sweet  Sixteen  also  likes  the  boys  after  the  most  ap- 
proved fashion.  She  wants  to  marry  one  of  these 
handsome  young  schoolfellows.  And  who  can  blame 
her  f They  are  far  to  be  preferred  to  the  dirty  old 
heathen  in  the  kraal,  to  whom  she  has  likely  already 


Sweet  Sixteen 


147 


been  sold  by  her  parents.  Most  likely  she  fled  to  the 
mission  as  to  a city  of  refuge  to  escape  being  forced 
into  such  a marriage.  But  she  is  very  discreet  in  her 
conduct  before  these  young  men.  When  the  young 
men  are  around  she  is  the  soul  of  demureness  and 
often  appears  quite  unaware  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  a boy  in  the  whole  universe,  let  alone  in  her 
vicinity. 

Nevertheless,  when  she  gets  on  her  best  Sunday- 
go-to-meeting  clothes,  I fear  her  mind  is  not  always 
on  the  sermon, — as  ours  used  to  be,  you  know.  A 
sly  little  Puss  is  Sweet  Sixteen  whether  she  be  black 
or  white. 

So  the  brief  term  of  her  school-days  flits  by  as  a 
dream.  There  are  at  least  a half-dozen  suitors  for 
her  hand.  No  dirty,  heathen  wife  for  our  Chris- 
tian boys,  thanks  ! So  in  two  or  three  years  at  the 
most,  she  has  a Christian  wedding  and  goes  out  with 
her  husband  to  win  other  girls  and  women  to  the 
Master  whom  she  has  come  to  know  and  serve. 

Sweet  Sixteen  at  school ! May  her  numbers  in- 
crease ! 


XXVII 

TO  BE  OR  NOT  TO  BE 

HAMATOTE  tightened  his  belt  to  lessen  the 
consciousness  of  his  lack  of  a morning  meal 
or  any  other  meal  for  forty-eight  hours. 
At  least  the  tightened  belt  would  stop  that  awful 
gnawing.  He  seized  his  walking  stick,  grasped  his 
stout  knobkerrie  and  spear  and  walked  out  of  the 
tumble-down  little  kraal  with  a look  of  determina- 
tion on  his  face. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  when  he  started  on  his 
journey : the  eastern  sky  was  all  alight  with  the 
glorious  afterglow  of  the  setting  sun  when  he  reached 
his  destination,  the  chiefs  kraal  where  he  knew  there 
was  food. 

His  look  of  determination  had  given  way  to  an  air 
of  indifference  which  ill  fitted  his  lean  frame  and  the 
natural  haggardness  which  comes  with  starvation. 
The  native  African  is  an  adept  at  playing  a part  but 
there  was  hunger  in  the  land  and  all  men  knew  it  only 
too  well  to  be  deceived. 

Ham atote  joined  the  usual  group  of  men  at  the  daily 
or  general  loafing  place,  a place  also  where  court  is 
held  and  where  many  a life  has  hung  in  the  balance 
either  to  be  acquitted  or  convicted  of  witchcraft.  He 
now  came  forward,  squatted  on  his  heels  and  went 
through  lengthy  greetings,  all  the  while  softly  clap- 
ping his  hands.  The  other  men  knew  at  once  his  er- 
rand and  so,  one  by  one,  they  got  up  and  went  away 

148 


To  Be  or  Not  to  Be 


H9 

until  he  was  left  with  the  Shyloek  with  whom  he  had 
to  deal. 

The  fact  that  the  chief  was  dirty  and  clad  only  in 
a couple  of  filthy  old  goatskins  did  not  impress 
Hamatote.  He  had  been  used  to  such  all  his  life. 
But  his  courage  almost  failed  as  he  looked  into  the 
hard,  merciless,  grasping,  hideous  face  before  him. 
But  his  stomach  was  empty  and  hunger  is  bold. 

Softly  clapping  his  hands  in  obeisance,  he  asked, 
16  Might  the  Ishi  have  any  more  grain?  ” The  Ishi 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  4 ‘ Where  should  he  see  grain 
when  there  was  no  rain  and  only  hunger  covered  the 
land  ? ” 

Hamatote  laughed  as  if  appreciating  the  Ishi’s 
humour.  The  old  man  felt  that  he  had  really  made  a 
witticism  and  laughed  himself.  It  put  him  in  quite 
a pleasant  frame  of  mind, — for  him. 

Seeing  the  advantage  of  the  chief  s self- satisfaction, 
Hamatote  began,  u I will  tell  the  Ishi  all  that  is  in  my 
heart.  The  Ishi  knows  I have  only  two  wives,  my 
son  and  one  daughter  left.  The  cattle  are  gone,  the 
sheep  are  gone,  the  goats  are  gone,  the  fowls  are  gone 
and  even  the  girl  has  been  sold  for  food.  We  have 
nothing  more  to  sell  and  death  waits  at  our  door. 
We  are  already  dead.  Give  me  grain  and  it  may  be 
that  the  gods  will  give  me  another  daughter  and  then 
shall  that  daughter  be  yours.  But  if  the  child  be  an- 
other son,  then  shall  he  give  you  his  daughter  when 
he  is  grown.  We  are  as  dead  men  before  the  Ishi  : 
will  he  not  hear  his  slave’s  prayer?  ” 

The  old  wretch  chuckled.  He  had  made  many 
such  bargains.  Fully  a score  of  girls  of  all  sizes  had 
already  been  bought  up  by  him  : he  would  risk  one 


150  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

other  even  though  it  were  unborn.  His  sensual  old 
soul  already  gloated  over  another  fair,  fresh,  young 
victim  and  the  deal  was  closed. 

They  called  the  child  Amundibayi  (he-will-not- 
slay-me).  Hamatote  did  not  long  survive  the  famine. 
When  pneumonia  attacked  his  gaunt  frame,  there  was 
no  resistive  power  left  and  he  died  leaving  his  eldest 
son  to  see  that  the  chief’s  debt  was  paid. 

Sixteen  years  passed  swiftly  away  and  then  the  old 
man  sent  word  that  he  wanted  to  claim  his  bride.  He 
was  sixteen  years  uglier  and  more  wicked  and  sensual, 
— that  was  all  the  change  in  him. 

Poor  Amundibayi ! She  loathed  the  very  sight  of 
him  and  vowed  she  never  would  marry  him : she’d 
commit  suicide  first  as  many  another  girl  had  done. 
But  the  older  brother  was  merciless.  If  she  did  not 
marry  the  chief,  he  must  go  to  work  and  pay  the  debt 
himself.  Such  a thing  was  not  to  be  considered.  Of 
course  she  must  marry  the  chief.  So  he  alternately 
argued  and  stormed  while  the  mother  scolded  and 
pleaded  and  threatened. 

Just  then  a bright  thought  struck  the  girl  : Why 
not  go  to  the  mission?  Her  half-sister  was  there. 
One  of  the  young  men  had  redeemed  her  from  the 
bondage  into  which  she  was  sold  and  had  married  her. 
Why  couldn’t  she  go  there  too?  The  more  she 
thought  of  it,  the  more  favourable  the  plan  seemed  to 
her  and  she  grew  so  cheerful  that  the  mother  and 
brother  thought  she  was  yielding. 

But  one  day  they  missed  her  and  then  they  knew 
the  cause  of  her  change  of  countenance  and  hastened 
after  her  with  all  possible  speed  but  were  too  late  to 
overtake  her  on  the  road. 


To  Be  or  Not  to  Be 


151 

When  they  came  to  the  mission,  they  made  a 
proper  row.  The  mother  threw  herself  at  my  feet 
and  told  me  how  she  was  dying  of  starvation  be- 
cause she  had  no  daughter  to  cook  her  food  for  her. 
The  brother  stormed  and  threatened,  all  to  no  avail. 

Then  they  went  over  to  the  native  commissioner 
where  the  young  man  said  that  his  wife  had  run 
away  from  him  and  that  the  mission  authorities  re- 
fused to  let  her  come  back  to  him.  So  he  returned 
and  triumphantly  handed  me  a note  which  ran, 
“ This  man  says  that  his  wife  is  at  the  mission  and 
this  is  to  authorize  his  taking  her  away  with  him,’ 1 
or  something  to  that  effect. 

u Where  is  your  wife  f ” I asked  the  young  man. 
He  looked  startled.  u This  letter  says  that  you  want 
your  wife  : where  is  she  ? I do  not  know  any  woman 
who  is  your  wife  here.”  He  was  completely  taken 
aback.  He  was  not  versed  in  the  powers  of  pen  and 
ink  and  never  dreamed  that  his  lie  would  be  so 
quickly  unearthed. 

Amundibayi  was  there  with  us  but  still  refused  to 
go  with  her  brother.  The  mother  and  brother  went 
away  and  came  back  a week  later.  They  wanted 
Amundibayi  to  go  with  them  to  the  native  commis- 
sioner. Certainly  : I had  not  the  least  objection. 
But  I called  her  brother-in-law  and  told  him  to  go 
along  too  to  see  that  no  foul  play  took  place.  When 
the  commissioner  heard  the  case,  he  only  said, 
u That’s  the  law  : she  cannot  be  compelled  to  marry 
that  old  man  and  I cannot  drive  her  away  from  the 
mission.  She  has  the  right  to  make  her  own  choice.” 

And  so  at  last,  after  two  or  three  weeks  of  trouble, 
they  left  her  in  peace. 


152  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

One  day  Charley  Potter  had  a long  talk  with  Mr. 
Springer.  Subsequently  he  had  an  interview  with 
Amundibayi.  He  sat  down  on  a soap  box  and  awk- 
wardly fingered  his  hat.  She  sat  on  an  another  soap 
box  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen  table  and  folded 
and  unfolded  a tea  towel. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  through 
school?  ” asked  Charley. 

“I  don’t  know,”  she  answered  shyly,  her  eyes 
glued  on  the  tea  towel. 

“Will  you  go  back  to  your  kraal  ? ” he  continued. 

“ Kwete ,”  was  the  emphatic  negative. 

“What  will  you  do?  If  you  will  not  marry  the 
man  your  folks  want  you  to  marry,  they  will  not  find 
you  another  husband.” 

Her  head  bent  over  the  tea  towel  and  her  voice  was 
barely  audible  as  she  replied,  “ I suppose  I shall 
have  to  get  one  myself.” 

“Do  you  think  I would  do?”  he  asked  a bit 
nervously. 

Evidently  she  did,  for  the  engagement  was  an- 
nounced forthwith.  The  course  of  their  true  love 
had  a rather  crooked  course  and  I do  not  know  if  it 
is  straightened  out  yet  or  not.  But  she  will  surely 
marry  some  Christian  boy  in  our  school. 

So  the  question  of  her  marriage  as  to  whether  she 
shall  be  sold  or  free  is  settled.  Not  so  with  thousands 
of  her  kraal  sisters. 

“To  be  or  not  to  be”  free,  that  is  the  question 
which  we  must  decide  for  the  most  of  them.  They 
are  ready  for  freedom  if  we  will  only  place  it 
within  their  reach. 


XXVIII 


PERPETUAL  BLISTERS 

THEBE  are  four  principal  means  of  trekking 
in  Africa — by  foot,  by  ox  wagon,  by  don- 
key or  mule  back  and  by  hammock  which 
last  named  conveyance  is  also  known  as  a machilla 
or  tipoa,  two  Portuguese  words  which  have  come  into 
current  use. 

In  Southern  Bhodesia,  the  hammock  or  machilla  is 
seldom  seen.  But  in  Northwestern  Bhodesia  where 
the  tsetse  fly  is  death  to  the  domestic  fowl  and  brute, 
the  machilla  is  in  great  demand  especially  for  ladies 
of  whom  there  are  hardly  more  than  a dozen  north 
of  the  Kafue  Biver. 

We  studied  the  pros  and  cons  of  travel  long  and 
well.  At  first  I decided  to  take  Jackie  with  me, 
shipping  him  by  freight  to  Broken  Hill,  but  learning 
of  the  tsetse  fly,  I saw  that  I should  only  lose  my 
donkey  in  so  doing.  He  might  have  gone  through 
the  whole  trip  and  he  might  have  died  in  a week,  so 
there  was  no  use  to  risk  it. 

I have  always  been  a good  pedestrian  and  had  al- 
ready walked  some  hundreds  of  miles  on  the  trail 
but  I could  not  contemplate  a trip  of  at  least  1,500 
and  possibly  2,000  miles  with  forced  marches,  on 
foot.  So  at  last  we  decided  on  a compromise : we 
got  a machilla  and  a half  of  a team  (eight  men)  so 
that  I could  ride  at  least  half  the  way  if  I needed  to. 

153 


154  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

And  but  for  Terrible  Tim,  I should  not  have  had 
that.  Mr.  Springer  had  engaged  a machilla  at  the 
Africa  Lakes  Store  but  when  he  went  to  get  it,  they 
told  him  they  had  just  received  a telegram  of  a large 
hunting  party  on  the  way  up  from  the  Cape  and  so 
they  couldn’t  let  him  have  it. 

Tim  had  been  a sailor  for  years  and  when  he 
learned  of  our  dilemma,  came  to  the  front  and  offered 
to  make  the  machilla  for  me.  So  we  got  the  stoutest 
canvas  to  be  had  and  in  two  days  the  hammock  part 
was  done  and  hung  on  a palm  leaf  stem  sixteen  feet 
long.  Over  this  was  another  piece  of  green,  water- 
proof canvas  which  closely  covered  the  hammock  to 
protect  the  occupant  from  the  bushes,  thorns,  grass 
and  other  jungle  as  well  as  a shade  from  the  burning 
sun. 

Possibly  a hammock  sounds  like  a comfortable 
thing  in  which  to  ride.  In  some  sections  of  Africa 
where  they  have  cleared  roads,  it  isn’t  so  bad.  But 
on  native  paths,  it  gets  to  be  almost  unendurable. 
Two  men  start  off  with  it  on  the  dog-trot  for  they 
cannot  walk  with  so  heavy  a load.  It  seems  almost 
impossible  for  them  to  turn  every  corner  of  the 
tortuous  path  in  the  great  forest  carefully.  So  the 
unfortunate  victim  in  the  machilla  is  jolted  along  at 
a back-breaking  pace  as  the  carriers  merrily  sing 

Gongo,  gongo, 

Wanu  wa  mayi  walila  ho, 

Gongo,  gongo, 

while  the  hammock  bangs  against  the  trees,  thumps 
on  stumps  and  ant-hills.  All  the  while  the  occupant 
is  sweltering  under  the  blaze  of  the  sun  on  the  canvas 


Perpetual  Blisters  155 

or  shivering  from  the  cold  wind  if  the  sun  doesn’t 
shine.  There’s  no  happy  medium  : it  is  either  un- 
comfortably hot  or  cold. 

It  was  my  plan,  therefore,  to  start  out  in  the  early 
morning  on  foot  and  walk  as  many  miles  as  possible 
before  I got  into  the  maehilla,  seldom  under  seven 
miles  and  more  often  nine  or  ten.  Four  miles  of  be- 
ing carried  was  about  the  most  I could  endure  at  one 
time.  Then  I would  get  out  and  walk  again  to  rest 
my  back. 

I took  three  pairs  of  boots  with  me  and  it  was  a 
lucky  thing  I did.  I took  them  so  that  if  one  pair 
wore  out,  I would  have  another.  But  I soon  found 
that  I needed  all  three  for  rotative  wear.  Each  pair 
made  a distinct  lot  of  blisters  on  my  feet.  So  when  I 
had  worn  one  pair  until  I was  quite  crippled,  I 
changed  and  put  on  another  pair.  These  gave  the 
first  set  of  blisters  time  to  recuperate  while  the  second 
set  were  forming.  Then  when  I could  no  longer 
walk  in  either  of  those  pairs,  the  third  lot  came  into 
service. 

I had  hoped  that  the  more  I walked,  the  easier  it 
would  be  and  that  my  feet  would  get  hardened.  Not 
so  : I kept  up  the  regular  round  of  blisters  from  start 
to  finish  and  at  the  last,  not  only  was  the  surface  of 
my  feet  sore,  but  every  joint  in  my  feet  and  body. 

The  last  ten  days  were  particularly  hard  ones. 
We  were  almost  out  of  food  and  even  the  sour  mush 
was  hard  to  obtain.  Moreover  the  water  was  inde- 
scribably bad.  We  frequently  had  to  use  a most 
nauseating,  opaque,  liquid  mud  from  stagnant  pools 
in  which,  frequently,  the  cattle  had  waded.  It  was 
undoubtedly  the  lack  of  good  water  which  affected 


156  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

us  the  most.  In  addition  to  this  we  had  to  make  at 
least  twenty-five  miles  a day.  My  machilla  men 
were  so  weakened  by  hunger,  so  footsore  and  worn 
that  they  could  only  carry  me  ten  miles  a day  at 
most.  We  were  in  one  of  the  most  desolate  countries 
ever  cursed  by  the  rum  and  slave  trade.  Slaves  in 
their  chains  and  heavy  yokes  were  seen  in  the  vil- 
lages through  which  we  passed,  ready  to  be  sent  to 
the  market  or  shipped  off  quietly.  The  trader  and 
rum  were  everywhere  in  evidence.  Graveyards  were 
the  most  prominent  feature  of  the  landscape  while 
here  and  there  a trader’s  whitewashed  house  or  a 
flourishing  ram  mill  stood  out  like  grim  tombstones 
in  this  depopulated  region.  It  seemed,  indeed,  a 
country  full  of  dead  men’s  bones. 

What  wonder  that  the  splendidly  built  Bachokwe 
tribe  stoutly  refuse  the  white  man  residence  in  their 
country.  According  to  their  version,  the  European 
represents  rum,  slavery,  death.  And  so  they  will  in 
Portuguese  territory  until  the  missionary  comes  in  to 
dwell  among  them  and  show  to  them  the  better  way. 


THE  CAMP  NEAR  THE  “ 5012th  ” ANT  HILL 


KANSHANSHI  COPPER  MINE  IN 
N.  W.  RHODESIA,  AFRICA 

The  ditch  in  the  foreground  shows  ancient  copper  workings 


XXIX 


BICYCLING  IN  CENTRAL  AFRICA 

GIFFOBD  had  got  his  notice  that  the  mine 
was  closing  down  and  in  one  month’s  time 
his  valuable  services  would  no  longer  be 
required.  At  first  he  thought  of  going  south  of  the 
Zambesi,  but  as  the  hard  times  were  at  their  worst 
there,  he  decided  he’d  “ chance  it”  and  go  north 
with  us.  Perhaps  there  would  be  an  opening  for  him 
in  the  Tanganyika  Concessions. 

It  was  then  the  discussion  arose  over  his  bicycle. 
One  said,  take  it ; another  said,  leave  it ; no  two 
agreed  as  to  the  practicability  of  taking  a wheel  onto 
a native  trail.  He  tried  to  sell  it,  but  since  the  mine 
was  closing  and  all  the  white  men  were  leaving,  there 
was  no  one  to  buy.  At  the  eleventh  hour,  in  a fit  of 
desperation,  he  concluded  to  take  it  along. 

Then  the  trouble  began.  A new  cone  was  needed 
to  make  it  usable  so  he  wrote  at  once  to  Bulawayo 
for  it.  After  the  letter  had  been  gone  a couple  of 
days,  he  sent  a telegram  to  make  sure.  But  on  the 
morning  of  our  departure,  said  cone  had  not  appeared 
and  the  fate  of  the  wheel  hung  in  the  balance. 

At  the  fifty-ninth  second,  Terrible  Tim  came  to  the 
rescue  and  offered  a whole  front  wheel.  So  while  the 
caravan  was  being  formed  in  line  and  loaded,  Gifford, 
Terrible  Tim  and  a newly  arrived  missionary  who 

157 


158  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

had  once  kept  a bicycle  shop,  whisked  around  the 
corner  to  repair  the  lame  machine.  The  caravan 
started  off  and  an  hour  later,  Gifford  caught  up  to  us 
with  the  coneless  wheel  hanging  over  the  handle  bars. 

Henry  Drummond  once  wrote,  “For  straightness 
in  general  and  crookedness  in  particular,  commend 
me  to  an  African  trail.”  Let  it  be  added  that  the 
trail  is  usually  from  nine  to  twelve  inches  wide,  often 
worn  down  six  or  more  inches  below  the  rest  of  the 
country,  bordered  with  small  ant-hills,  circumscrib- 
ing big  ones,  thickly  bestrewn  with  stones,  stumps, 
fallen  branches,  obtruding  roots  and  other  obstacles. 

However,  the  country  from  Broken  Hill  was,  for 
the  most  part,  flat  and  heavily  wooded,  which  was  an 
advantage  over  tall  grass.  Gifford  and  Mr.  Springer 
both  suffered  from  badly  blistered  feet  at  the  outset 
so  they  took  turns  riding  the  wheel  and  for  a few 
days  were  rather  glad  they  had  it  along.  Each 
would  ride  until  his  eyes  ached  and  his  nerves  were 
all  awry  and  then  he  would  walk  on  leaving  the  wheel 
standing  against  a tree  by  the  side  of  the  path  for 
the  other  fellow. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  out,  that 
Gifford  was  delighted  to  see  his  wheel  waiting  for 
him.  The  sun  was  very  hot  and  his  feet  very  sore. 
He  mounted  and  rode  along,  mentally  composing  an 
argument  in  favour  of  his  machine,  but  he  had  hardly 
ridden  five  minutes  when  he  came  to  an  open,  swampy 
vlej  (pronounced  flay)  where  the  grass  grew  to  six  or 
eight  feet  in  height  on  either  side  of  the  path  and 
interlocked  in  the  centre  of  it. 

He  dismounted  and  tried  to  push  through  the 
tangle.  The  sun  shone  down  blisteringly  and  the 


Bicycling  in  Central  Africa  159 

thick  jungle  permitted  not  so  much  as  a breath  of 
air.  The  wheel  balked,  turned,  twisted  and  got 
snarled  up  in  the  grass.  The  insult  to  the  injury 
came  when  swarms  of  tsetse  flies  were  stirred  up  by 
the  commotion  and  settled  themselves  on  Gifford’s 
bare  neck  and  arms,  puncturing  him  as  with  red  hot 
needles,  raising  great  itching  welts  which  were  almost 
maddening. 

However,  while  the  enthusiasm  over  the  bicycle 
waned  daily,  in  consideration  of  the  blistered  feet  it 
was  agreed  that  on  the  whole  the  wheel  was  a rather 
good  thing.  At  any  rate  it  made  good  time.  There- 
fore on  Saturday  it  was  settled  that  Gifford  should 
ride  ahead,  cover  the  twenty  miles  in  two  or  three 
hours  at  the  most  and  let  the  brethren  of  a certain 
mission  know  that  we  were  on  the  way. 

He  started  off  in  high  feather  to  make  the  trip  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning.  But  he  had  hardly  got  out 
of  our  sight  when  he  struck  soft  sand  through  which 
he  had  to  walk  and  push  the  wheel  for  about  two 
miles.  Reentering  the  forest  where  the  path  was 
solid,  he  mounted  and  hurried  forward.  But  his  rest 
was  short-lived  for  he  soon  came  to  a clearing  where 
there  were  more  stumps  than  trees.  Here  he  jumped 
on  and  off  the  wheel  until  familiarity  bred  contempt, 
for  the  dangers  and  leg- weariness  made  him  reckless. 
The  next  thing  he  knew,  he  picked  himself  up,  looked 
to  see  if  there  were  any  broken  bones,  nursed  his 
bleeding  knee  which  protruded  through  the  torn 
pantaloons  and  lastly  examined  the  buckled  wheel  to 
see  if  it  had  come  to  a violent  end. 

He  found  it  bent  beyond  repair  at  that  time,  so 
setting  it  in  the  path  he  ran  it  on  its  hind  wheel, 


160  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

limping  painfully  behind  it  for  at  least  fifteen  miles, 
only  reaching  the  mission  a half  hour  ahead  of  the 
caravan. 

It  took  two  men  all  of  Monday  to  get  the  thing 
into  working  order  again  and  even  then  the  front 
wheel  rubbed  the  fork  badly.  Moreover,  the  machine 
was  very  wabbly  and  had  to  be  pushed  so  much 
that  a boy  was  taken  from  my  machilla  team  to  at- 
tend solely  to  it. 

The  path  got  worse  and  the  fork  badly  worn,  so 
when  we  reached  the  mining  camp  of  Kanshanshi  it 
took  several  other  hours  and  two  men  working  on  it 
with  the  result  that  the  old  wheel  was  removed  en- 
tirely and  replaced  by  another  hind  wheel  so  that  the 
bicycle  reminded  one  of  the  small  boy  in  the  home- 
made trousers, — you  couldn’t  tell  which  way  he  was 
going. 

Between  the  two  mines  of  Kanshanshi  and  Kam- 
bove  there  is  a bicycle  path  one  hundred  and  ten 
miles  long.  It  was  on  this  path  one  day  that  Gifford 
came  abruptly  around  a large  ant-hill  and  nearly  ran 
onto  a leopard  which  was  about  to  lie  down  in  the 
path.  He  had  just  time  to  dismount  when  the  huge 
beast  bounded  off  into  the  forest  without  even  look- 
ing up  to  see  what  the  click  it  heard  was  : and  Gif- 
ford sat  down  to  meditate  and  wait  for  the  rest  of  the 
caravan. 

By  the  time  we  reached  Kambove,  the  saddle  was 
worn  out  and  several  other  small  items  needed  atten- 
tion and  once  more  and  for  the  last  time,  the  wheel 
was  pronounced  fit  for  the  trail  and  did  good  service 
part  of  the  way  to  Buwi.  The  trouble  now  was  that 
the  trail  was  not  fit  for  the  wheel.  Bough,  rocky, 


Bicycling  in  Central  Africa  161 

steep  hills,  large  rivers  and  big  swamps  left  little 
room  for  bicycling. 

The  end  came  just  beyond  Ruwi,  when  Mr.  Springer 
took  a double-header  over  a root  on  a vlej  where  there 
wasn’t  a tree  in  sight,  nearly  broke  his  own  neck  and 
completely  finished  the  bicycle. 

But  in  that  fly -infested  country  the  bicycle  is  al- 
ready playing  an  important  part  among  the  mining 
men.  It  will  also  play  an  important  part  in  the 
evangelization  of  that  wild  country.  The  missionary 
must  use  it  wherever  he  can  to  save  time  and  to 
spread  himself  out  over  as  great  a district  as  possible 
in  an  immense  area  where  to-day  the  harvest  is  great 
and  the  reapers  are  none. 


XXX 

THE  BUFFALO  AT  THE  5012th  ANT-HILL 


Northwestern  rhodesia  might  be 

called  the  land  of  ant-hills.  Not  that  they 
do  not  exist  elsewhere  but  that  here  they 
particularly  predominate.  For  at  least  500  miles  of 
our  journey,  we  enjoyed  a continual  panorama  of  ant- 
hills and  always  sought  to  pitch  our  tent  close  to  one 
at  night.  In  certain  sections,  the  ant-hills  were 
heavily  timbered  with  big  trees,  the  ants  which  built 
up  the  symmetrical  little  hill  having  gone  elsewhere. 
Then  we  struck  a region  where  all  the  big,  round  ant- 
hills were  overgrown  with  delicate  green,  graceful, 
lacy  bamboo.  After  that,  their  character  changed 
again.  This  time  they  were  covered  with  a short, 
coarse  grass  which  resembled  nothing  else  so  much  as 
a thatched  hut  roof.  Then  for  two  or  three  days,  we 
found  most  peculiar  and  fantastically  shaped  products 
of  the  termite.  Some  were  tall  like  the  chimneys  which 
stand  after  fire  has  destroyed  the  rest  of  the  house. 

Together  with  these  big  ant-hills,  there  were  always 
a multitude  of  little  ones  which  had  been  formed 
about  some  bit  of  dead  wood.  Often  on  treeless 
plains,  we  found  thousands  of  lesser  ant-hills,  which 
looked  like  giant  toadstools,  two  or  three  feet  in 
height. 

The  5012th  ant-hill  (the  number  is  taken  at  ran- 
dom ; I never  was  good  at  figures)  was  one  of  the  big, 
round  kind,  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  high  and  covered 

162 


The  Buffalo  at  the  5012th  Ant-Hill  163 

with  bamboo.  We  were  going  along  in  the  early 
morning  ahead  of  the  caravan  looking  for  meat. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Springer  halted  until  I came  up  to 
him  when  he  pointed  down  to  the  other  side  of  the 
vlej  where  a large  bull  buffalo  stood  in  the  short 
grass.  Now  the  African  buffalo  has  the  worst  repu- 
tation for  fierceness  of  all  the  animals  of  the  veld. 
They  are  considered  without  exception  the  most  dan- 
gerous beast  in  all  Africa.  And  the  lone  rover  bull 
which  has  been  turned  out  of  the  herd  because  of  its 
bad  disposition  is  the  worst  of  the  lot. 

“ Isn’t  it  a pity  ? ” whispered  my  husband. 

“ What’s  a pity  f ” I asked. 

“ That  I can’t  have  a whack  at  him,”  he  replied. 

“ Why  can’t  you  % ” came  back  in  the  same  tragic 
whisper. 

“ Because  I couldn’t  endanger  you,”  he  retorted  in 
surprise  that  I should  ask.  By  this  time  my  remote 
Indian  blood  was  fired  and  though  naturally  one  of 
the  most  cowardly  of  mortals,  always  deathly  afraid 
of  a gun  or  even  a firecracker,  the  sight  of  that  splen- 
did beast  and  the  knowledge  that  our  men  needed 
food  thrilled  me  with  an  excitement  I had  never 
known  before. 

“ You  must  shoot,”  I whispered  excitedly.  “You 
go  over  to  that  ant-hill  where  you  will  be  hidden  in 
the  bamboo.  I’ll  go  over  here  and  hide  behind  this 
old  skerm.  The  buffalo  will  charge  the  ant-hill,  if  he 
charges  at  all  and  you  can  always  climb  a tree.  So 
I’ll  be  safe  enough.”  I gave  him  an  impatient  push 
as  he  further  hesitated,  doubting  the  wisdom  of  my 
sage  counsel.  “Go  on:  hurry,”  I repeated  and 
skulked  off  for  the  skerm. 


164  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

He  made  his  way  cautiously  towards  the  ant-hill 
and  I watched  from  my  hiding-place  but  in  my  ex- 
citement not  doing  much  better  in  concealing  myself 
than  the  fable  of  the  ostrich  and  the  sand,  quite  for- 
getting until  afterwards  that  I had  on  a bright  blue 
blouse.  Had  Mr.  Springer  lost  his  head  as  completely 
as  I lost  mine,  I should  probably  not  have  been  here 
now  to  write  this  story. 

Bang ! And  the  immense  beast  instead  of  charg- 
ing started  to  go  back  on  his  own  tracks.  It  is  more 
than  likely  he  was  blind  and  went  by  instinct  and 
smell.  Another  shot  would  probably  have  finished 
him,  but  alas  ! he  was  making  in  the  direction  of  the 
skerm  and  another  shot  might  have  brought  him  upon 
me,  so  on  he  galloped  undisturbed. 

We  remained  in  hiding  some  minutes,  for  the  buffalo 
is  treacherous.  Then  the  native  who  was  with  us  and 
who  had  climbed  a tree  where  he  could  watch  pro- 
ceedings in  safety,  gave  the  signal  and  we  came  out. 
We  found  that  the  animal  had  been  badly  wounded, 
so  Mr.  Springer  followed  him  for  four  miles  but  in 
vain. 

I think  I was  the  more  disappointed  over  the  loss. 
It  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  felt  the  spirit  of  the 
chase,  that  primitive  nature  which  lies  so  near  the 
surface  in  all  of  us,  which  centuries  of  culture  and 
learning  cannot  drown.  In  fact,  I could  not  be  recon- 
ciled until  one  day  Mr.  Springer  bagged  a couple  of 
fine  wart  hogs  which  were  much  better  eating,  and 
the  tushes  of  which  were  much  easier  to  take  along 
with  us  than  the  enormous  horns  of  the  buffalo  would 
have  been, — the  buffalo  at  the  5012th  ant-hill. 


XXXI 

THE  LAND  OF  SOUR  MUSH 


IT  was  not  the  land  of  corn  and  wine  neither  was 
it  the  land  of  milk  and  honey.  Honey  there 
was  no  doubt  but  the  only  evidence  of  it  was  in 
the  abundance  of  native  beer  made  from  it.  The  man 
who  drinks  honey  beer  will  walk  miles  hunting  for 
trouble  till  he  finds  it.  The  tribe  that  imbibes, 
makes  it  exceedingly  dangerous  for  the  passing 
traveller. 

When  we  heard  the  dull  booming  of  the  distant 
drums,  we  knew  we  were  nearing  a village  where  a 
native  dance  was  in  progress  and  most  of  the  people 
would  be  drunk.  One  night  we  had  a camp  close  to 
such  a kraal.  When  Mr.  Springer  went  to  buy  food, 
he  found  the  people  very  surly.  They  were  all  hide- 
ously painted  up  for  one  of  their  devil  dances. 

When  we  went  to  bed  the  dance  was  in  full  swing 
as  the  wild  yells  of  the  people  evidenced.  Every 
now  and  then  through  the  night  the  wind  would  veer 
and  bring  the  frenzied  yells  nearer  and  we  would 
think  for  an  instant  that  possibly  the  natives  were 
making  an  attack.  Surely  had  not  that  unseen  Guard 
been  about  us,  I fear  that  we  should  all  have  been 
deported  before  morning  to  that  land  from  whence 
none  may  return.  Conscious  of  the  fact  that  the 
Guard  was  actually  there,  we  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
weary  only  rousing  when  the  terrible  din  became  too 
loud  to  admit  of  sleep. 


165 


i66  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

It  was  the  land  of  sour  mush,  a few  beans  and 
honey  beer, — the  Bachokwe  country  or  the  hinter- 
land of  Africa’s  rich  Province  of  Angola.  Nor 
could  we  get  plenty  of  the  sour  mush.  The  natives 
sold  us  at  an  exorbitant  price  very  small  quantities 
of  the  cassava  meal  of  which  we  made  the  mush. 
Their  whole  attitude  was  sullen,  defiant  and  sus- 
picious. 

The  meal  is  made  from  the  cassava,  or  manioca, 
tuber.  There  are  two  kinds  of  cassava,  the  bitter 
and  the  sweet.  The  bitter  has  in  it  more  or  less 
Prussic  acid  and  serious  cases  of  poisoning  have  come 
from  eating  it  raw.  The  natives  cultivate  the  bitter 
almost  exclusively  in  that  interior  region.  Possibly 
they  hope  some  of  their  slave-raiding  enemies  will 
eat  thereof  and  die. 

In  order  to  use  the  bitter  cassava,  the  women  first 
soak  it  for  eight  or  ten  days,  which  seems  to  take 
out  all  the  poison.  And  though  there  are  plenty 
of  clear,  running  streams  of  water  in  that  country, 
the  natives  rigidly  eschew  them  for  the  soaking  proc- 
ess and  select  some  miry  place  or  stagnant  pool 
from  which  there  is  emitted  a never-to-be-forgotten 
pig-sty  odour  which  proclaims  a cassava  patch  long 
before  it  can  be  seen.  Drawing  near,  one  may  see 
the  surface  covered  with  a green  slime  and  large  bub- 
bles which  tell  of  the  fermentation  going  on  below. 

Often  as  we  marched  along,  we  could  see  the  al- 
most naked  women  wading  in  these  pools,  sometimes 
standing  to  their  thighs  in  the  mud,  taking  out  the 
buried  roots,  peeling  off  the  outer  bark  and  placing 
them  in  large  baskets  skillfully  poised  on  their 
heads.  At  such  times  the  stirring  up  of  the  waters 


A HAND  GRIST  MILL 


The  Land  of  Sour  Mush 


167 

makes  the  smell  more  pronounced  and  lessens  the  ap- 
petite for  the  supper  which  will  have  undergone  the 
same  preparatory  treatment. 

Coming  to  a kraal,  we  may  see  the  cassava  in  the 
next  process  of  drying  as  it  lays  spread  out  on  the 
roofs  of  the  squalid  huts  where  all  the  dust  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly unsanitary  village  blows  upon  it  the  while 
rats,  lizards  and  chickens  race  over  it  at  will. 

And  somewhere  in  that  same  kraal,  standing  near 
a hut  or  rolling  around  in  the  dirt  among  the  dogs, 
pigs,  goats,  fowls  and  children,  is  the  village  mortar 
in  which  the  dried  root  will  be  pounded  into  flour. 

There  was  one  scientific  straw  to  which  we  desper- 
ately clung, — that  boiling  kills  all  germs,  thus  saving 
us  from  the  ravages  of  the  bacilli,  schizomycetes,  bac- 
teria, or  other  rampant  microbes  which  undoubtedly 
lodged  in  our  dirty  food  and  ofttimes  equally  dirty 
water. 

But  though  encouraging  from  a scientific  stand- 
point, the  method  of  cooking  did  not  increase  its  gas- 
tronomic properties.  First  the  water  was  brought  to 
a boil  in  the  large  pot  and  then  the  flour  was  sifted 
in  and  stirred  vigorously  with  a big  stick  until  the 
mass  was  so  thick  that  it  could  hardly  be  stirred. 
Surely  the  last  germs  could  not  be  boiled  but  we 
hoped  that  they  were  steamed  into  a state  of  inof- 
fensiveness. If,  however,  any  did  have  enough  vital- 
ity to  revive,  we  prayed  that  they  might  be  peace- 
ably disposed. 

Hunger  is  a specific  remedy  for  Epicureanism.  And 
we  were  hungry.  We  were  none  of  us  Epicureans 
either.  But  when  that  big,  grayish  ball  with  a con- 
sistency of  African  rubber  and  smelling  like  a mass 


l68  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

of  decayed  vegetables  in  the  garbage  can  came  be- 
fore us,  it  took  more  than  an  ordinary  appetite  to  get 
it  down. 

It  took  skill  too.  A reasonably-sized  chunk  was 
dipped  into  half-cooked  bean  soup,  then  popped  into 
the  month  and  swallowed  without  chewing.  To  hes- 
itate was  to  be  lost,  verily.  Once  the  teeth  got  into 
the  sticky  ball,  there  was  trouble. 

Any  kind  of  soup  or  gravy  would  have  served  the 
same  lubricating  purpose.  It  was  not  a matter  of 
choice  on  our  part  that  we  had  only  bean  soup  night 
and  morning  for  weeks.  Necessity  gave  birth  to  no 
inventions  that  time.  The  game  of  the  country  had 
been  practically  exterminated  by  the  natives  who 
were  armed  to  a man  with  flint-lock  guns  bought 
from  the  Portuguese.  There  were  but  few  domestic 
animals  in  the  kraals  and  the  exorbitant  prices  asked 
for  them  were  simply  prohibitive  for  us. 

So  we  sat  down  to  our  sour  mush  every  morning 
and  struggled  with  a big  slice  of  the  sticky  stuff, 
dipped  it  into  the  chocolate-coloured  bean  puree  and 
gulped  it  down  with  the  satisfaction  that  it  was  won- 
derfully nutritious  and  strengthening  and  that  we 
would  surely  need  all  we  could  possibly  eat  in  order 
to  walk  ten  or  twelve,  perhaps  fourteen,  miles  before 
we  ate  our  frugal,  cold  lunch. 

Every  evening  we  sat  down  to  our  soap  box  table 
and  gave  thanks  in  sincerity  for  that  which  was  to  us 
life  and  health.  True,  our  stomachs  fairly  flopped 
over  at  the  sight  and  smell  of  it,  but  it  kept  us  from 
starving  and  we  were  thankful  to  have  it. 

But  no  one  can  imagine  how  thankful  we  were, 
when  we  reached  Angola,  to  get  bread  and  butter, 


The  Land  of  Sour  Mush  169 

even  rancid,  tinned  butter  again.  And  yet, — we 
shall  eat  the  sour  mush  again.  Not  with  jam, — 
heaven  forbid  ! But  we  would  rather,  if  necessary, 
go  back  and  live  on  the  sour  mush  than  remain  in 
America  living  on  the  fat  of  this  fattest  land  in  the 
world,  knowing  that  out  yonder  tens  of  thousands  of 
souls  are  starving,  dying  in  heathen  darkness,  un- 
reached by  any  Christian  voice  or  hand. 


XXXII 


SOUR  MUSH  AND  SWEET  JAM 

WE  liad  had  a surfeit  of  swamps.  We  had 
waded  swamps,  cold,  frosty,  deep  swamps 
in  the  morning ; slimy,  boggy,  sluggish, 
fetid  swamps  at  the  noonday  ; often  more  swamps  in 
the  afternoon ; and  again  slumpy,  humpy,  noisome, 
stagnant,  miry  swamps  just  at  the  close  of  the  day’s 
trek. 

Such  was  the  case  on  the  ever-to-be-remembered 
day  of  sour  mush  and  sweet  jam.  After  twenty-two 
miles  we  had  decided  to  camp  at  the  first  water  and 
accordingly  picked  out  a nice  sheltered  spot  under 
some  large  trees  only  to  find  it  was  a native  grave- 
yard. That  wouldn’t  do.  So  we  looked  about  for  a 
better  place  and  found  another  swamp  just  ahead  of 
us  and  boldly  determined  to  cross  it  then  and  there 
rather  than  in  the  cold  of  the  morning. 

But  on  the  other  side  there  seemed  not  a tree  in 
sight  for  fire-wood  or  shelter  and  we  spent  a good 
half  hour  hunting  for  that  necessary  commodity 
wherewith  we  might  cook  our  frugal  sour  mush  sup- 
per. In  the  search  we  left  the  main  trail  without 
cutting  it  off  with  a mark  or  a bunch  of  fresh  leaves 
to  let  our  carriers  who  were  far  behind  know  where 
we  had  stopped.  When  we  did  think  of  it,  it  was 
too  late.  Already  more  than  half  our  men  had 
missed  us  and  gone  by  on  the  trail  we  had  left. 

170 


Sour  Mush  and  Sweet  Jam 


171 


Then  we  took  account  of  stock  for  no  amount  of 
search  and  halooing  brought  any  response  from  the 
missing  carriers.  We  had  fifty  pounds  of  cassava 
meal,  a box  in  which  were  some  jam  and  cheese,  two 
jack-knives,  two  teaspoons,  a wash-basin,  one  small 
tent  and  a few  blankets.  Our  eight  Angoni  carriers 
had  the  only  cooking  pot  of  any  description.  It  was 
their  own  and  to  my  certain  knowledge  had  not  been 
washed  for  two  months. 

Travel  on  the  veld  discourages  aestheticism  as  well 
as  Epicureanism.  We  were  thankful  that  there  was 
even  the  sour  mush,  the  jam  and  the  kaffir  pot.  If 
the  pot  still  bore  the  remnants  of  two  months’  cook- 
ings, why  the  water  from  the  swamp  drained  one 
graveyard  as  we  knew  and  perhaps  dozens  of  others 
where  ignorance  was  bliss.  It  isn’t  practical  to  dwell 
upon  such  matters.  After  all,  we  can  die  but  once 
and  as  Livingstone  said,  “ We  seem  to  be  immortal 
until  our  work  is  done.” 

So  when  the  Angoni  had  finished  cooking  their 
supper,  Benjamin  did  his  best  to  wash  out  the  pot 
with  the  limited  supply  of  dirty  water  on  hand  and  in 
due  season  brought  us  the  big  grayish,  sour-smelling 
ball,  with  which  we  had  grown  familiar,  in  the  wash- 
basin. We  ate  it  with  the  use  of  the  two  jack-knives 
and  the  two  teaspoons. 

Shades  of  sauerkraut  and  sweet  preserves  ! Only 
sauerkraut  is  accommodating  enough  to  slip  down 
one’s  throat  without  sticking  and  the  sour  mush 
won’t.  It  had  to  be  lubricated  with  the  jam. 

We  ate  it  and  ate  heartily  for  we  were  hungry  and 
we  encouraged  each  other  that  it  wasn’t  half  bad. 
Indeed,  it  might  have  been  much  worse.  If  we  had 


172  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

had  no  jam  how  could  we  have  ever  eaten  the  mush  ? 
And  that  would  have  been  lots  worse. 

We  ate  close  by  the  fire  of  the  one  log  we  had 
found  and  then  wrapped  ourselves  in  all  the  cloaks 
and  rugs  and  blankets  we  could  find  to  keep  us  warm 
through  the  half-wakeful  night  wherein  we  were  con- 
scious of  a mixture  of  sour  mush  and  jam  in  the 
epigastric  region. 

With  the  morning,  came  another  large  ball  of  sour 
mush  and  the  remnant  of  a tin  of  jam.  We  looked 
at  it  and  then  at  each  other.  There  was  a tramp  of 
twenty  miles  or  more  ahead  of  us  and  we  could  not 
afford  to  start  out  on  empty  stomachs.  But  we  were 
all  unitedly  and  individually  agreed  that  our  stomachs 
were  not  empty.  Surely  the  sour  mush  and  sweet 
jam  of  the  night  before  was  all  there  and  nature 
rebelled  against  insult  being  added  to  injury. 

Just  then  we  heard  a wild  whoop  and  looking  around 
saw  one  of  the  lost  carriers.  Those  who  had  gone  on, 
went  three  miles  ahead,  and  then  finding  that  they 
had  missed  us,  turned  back  and  the  irony  of  it  was 
that  they  had  slept  not  more  than  a five  minute  walk 
ahead  of  us. 

It  is,  indeed,  a blessed  thing  that  a man’s  life  con- 
sisteth  not  in  the  abundance  or  the  lack  of  the  things 
which  he  has  to  eat.  It  is  even  better  to  have  a diet 
of  sour  mush  and  sweet  jam  in  the  path  of  duty 
than  the  table  of  the  Epicure  and  not  know  the  joy  of 
taking  the  Bread  of  Life  to  famishing  souls. 


xxxm 

THE  SOUL  OF  A CHICKEN 


WE  had  had  a twenty-two  mile  trek  on  the 
7th  of  August.  Our  course  had  led  over 
and  along  three  high  ridges  of  land  with 
the  necessary  going  up  and  down  between,  so  that  we 
were  a tired  caravan  when  we  reached  Kapungu’s 
kraal  about  four  that  afternoon. 

The  people  were  still  Bachokwe  though  we  were 
getting  near  the  borders  of  the  Songo  country  where 
we  were  hoping  to  get  better  treatment  than  among 
the  surly  and  sullen  Bachokwe.  To  our  surprise  here, 
Kapungu  came  out  to  our  camp  in  person  to  give  us 
a hearty  welcome  and  a present  of  a fowl  and  some 
meal  while  the  people  were  effusively  warm  in  their 
greetings.  It  was  hard  to  say  which  was  the  most 
embarrassing,  the  defiance  of  the  rest  of  the  tribe  or 
the  suspicious  effusiveness  of  these. 

They  assured  us  they  were  delighted  to  see  us  and 
would  show  us  the  only  place  thereabouts  that  we 
could  possibly  camp  where  we  could  be  handy  to  the 
water.  Was  there  not  a place  beyond  their  kraal 
where  we  could  get  water?  Nay,  they  were  sorry  to 
assure  us  there  was  none  for  a long,  long  distance. 

We  had  made  it  an  unbroken  rule  up  to  the  pres- 
ent to  always  camp  on  the  farther  side  of  a kraal. 
There  are  several  advantages  in  so  doing,  one  being 
that  if  trouble  should  arise  with  the  natives  during 

173 


174  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

the  night,  escape  would  be  much  easier.  This  time 
the  plausibility  of  the  lies  and  the  fact  that  we  were 
all  so  weary  that  further  investigation  seemed  impos- 
sible made  us  the  more  easily  taken  in. 

For  a while  all  went  well.  The  women  brought 
out  more  food  than  we  had  seen  for  a long  time  and  it 
really  seemed  as  if  our  men  would  get  a full  supper, 
even  though  back  of  all  the  protestations  of  friend- 
ship there  was  a disposition  to  extort  outrageous 
prices.  Moreover,  we  soon  discovered  that  many  of 
the  men  were  partly  intoxicated,  a fact  that  made  us 
not  a little  uneasy  at  once. 

In  the  midst  of  the  buying,  a man  came  rushing  up 
saying  that  one  of  our  carriers  had  killed  his  chicken. 
Mr.  Springer  asked  the  offender  how  it  happened. 

“ It  was  this  way,”  he  went  on  to  explain.  u I was 
cutting  down  some  fire- wood,  and  just  as  I was  bring- 
ing my  axe  down,  the  chicken  popped  its  head  out 
from  under  the  log  but  I couldn’t  stop  quick  enough 
to  save  it.” 

It  was  a lame  tale  and  might  have  been  humorous 
at  another  time.  It  was  serious  now  and  the  man 
received  a severe  reprimand  while  the  owner  of  the 
half-grown  bantam  was  offered  two  yards  of  cloth, 
worth  in  that  district  at  least  fifty  cents.  He  rejected 
the  cloth  at  once  : that  could  not  begin  to  pay  his 
loss.  His  dead  brother’s  spirit  was  in  that  fowl  and 
he  could  not  be  compensated  by  such  a small  amount 
of  cloth  for  the  insult  done  to  his  brother’s  ghost. 

Mr.  Springer  appealed  to  the  chief.  u Isn’t  this 
the  right  amount  for  me  to  pay  your  man  *?  ” he  asked. 
The  chief  said  it  was  all  right.  After  that  of  course 
he  would  pay  no  more.  Still  the  native  kept  up  his 


The  Soul  of  a Chicken 


]75 


complaint  until  Mr.  Springer  asked  the  chief,  “Is 
your  brother’s  spirit  in  the  cock  you  gave  me!”  and 
there  was  a general  laugh.  Every  one  knew  that 
the  talk  about  his  brother’s  spirit  was  all  nonsense, 
merely  an  excuse  for  extortion. 

The  wrangling  broke  up  the  buying.  Finally  all 
the  men  took  themselves  off  to  their  kraal  and  dark- 
ness fell.  A little  later  we  heard  women’s  voices 
among  our  carriers  whom  we  had  instructed  to  camp 
close  to  our  tent  that  night  as  we  feared  foul  play. 
Mr.  Springer  went  to  them  at  once  and  ordered  the 
women  away.  They  said  that  they  had  merely  come 
down  to  sell  a little  more  food.  He  replied  it  made 
no  difference  and  gave  orders  that  if  any  women  were 
seen  thereabouts,  the  carriers  were  to  let  him  know  at 
once.  For  this  is  a trap  too  often  set  for  unwary  car- 
avans. 

The  situation  that  night  was  the  most  serious  of  any 
night  on  the  trail,  so  far  as  we  knew.  The  natives 
were  drunk,  they  were  treacherous,  they  were  mani- 
festly trying  to  find  an  excuse  to  plunder  us  of  what 
little  trading  "goods  we  did  have  and  they  had  led  us 
to  camp  where  we  should  have  to  go  through  their 
kraal  in  order  to  pursue  our  journey.  Every  male  in 
the  kraal  was  armed  with  a gun,  so  if  we  were  to  pass 
through  with  our  lives,  it  must  be  by  some  other 
force  than  our  three  rifles.  So  we  prayed. 

About  midnight,  I heard  a stealthy  step  near  the 
tent  and  wakened  my  husband.  We  listened  with 
bated  breath  as  the  steps  softly  approached  the  front 
of  the  tent  and  then  moved  away.  Looking  out,  he 
saw  one  of  our  carriers  going  off  with  a steamer  chair 
while  on  the  other  side  of  the  path,  the  camp-fires 


176  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

were  burning  brightly  and  the  natives  were  all  astir. 
Going  out  to  find  the  cause  of  the  disturbance  (we 
had  slept  in  our  clothes  that  night  in  case  of  an  at- 
tack) he  found  the  foes  were  none  other  than  an  army 
of  red  ants  which  had  turned  half  of  the  caravan  out 
of  their  quarters.  These  red  soldier  ants  are  much 
smaller  and  more  vicious  than  their  large  black 
brothers.  Burying  their  mandibles  in  the  flesh,  they 
will  not  let  go  even  though  their  heads  are  torn  from 
their  bodies  and  the  torture  of  their  bites  is  madden- 
ing. 

Fortunately  the  army  did  not  cross  the  path  that 
night  and  those  of  us  on  the  upper  side  were  left  in 
peace. 

The  next  morning  at  four  o’clock  our  camp  was 
quietly  awakened  and  silently  made  ready  for  the 
trail.  Just  as  the  first  gray  streaks  of  dawn  showed 
in  the  sky,  our  caravan  glided  silently  through  the 
kraal,  leaving  the  disputed  chicken  lying  under  a 
tree  with  the  two  yards  of  cloth.  Some  of  the  vil- 
lagers were  awaking  but  no  opposition  was  made  to 
our  departure  and  we  took  a long  breath  of  relief  as 
we  got  away. 

We  had  no  guide  so  had  to  follow  the  compass  to 
the  next  kraal  seven  miles  away  over  a very  rough, 
mountainous  trail.  As  we  entered  the  kraal,  my 
husband  exclaimed  in  an  undertone  to  me  as  I came 
up  to  him,  “There’s  the  man  and  his  chicken ! ” 
Sure  enough  ! There  on  a stone  in  the  centre  of  the 
kraal  were  the  fowl  and  the  two  yards  of  cloth. 
Near  by  sat  the  owner  and  around  him  were  a half 
dozen  men  whom  he  had  called  for  counsel.  This 
looked  even  more  serious  than  ever. 


The  Soul  of  a Chicken 


177 


Mr.  Springer  at  that  point  became  hopelessly 
stupid.  He  utterly  failed  to  understand  anything 
that  the  complainant  said  to  him.  Apparently  he 
thought  the  man  had  had  some  scruples  against  tak- 
ing the  cloth  and  keeping  the  fowl.  He  would  set 
his  tender,  conscientious  heart  at  rest  on  that  point. 
So  in  the  most  benignant  way,  he  answered  all  that 
was  said  with  the  words,  u That’s  all  right ; you  can 
keep  the  fowl  and  the  cloth  too.  I’m  perfectly  will- 
ing that  you  should  eat  the  fowl  if  you  wish.’ ’ 

Again  and  again  the  old  rascal  would  try  and  state 
the  serious  side  of  his  case  to  win  the  superstitious 
sympathy  of  his  tribesmen  only  to  be  interrupted 
with  the  irrelevant  assurance  that  he  was  welcome  to 
eat  the  fowl.  At  last  the  apparent  idiocy  of  the 
white  man  appealed  to  the  risibles  of  a graceless 
young  buck  who  knew  the  old  man’s  pretended  piety 
was  all  a humbug,  and  he  laughed  outright.  This 
broke  the  spell  and  we  felt  the  danger  was  over.  By 
this  time  all  of  our  carriers  were  at  hand  and  had  laid 
down  their  loads  to  hear  the  end  of  the  matter. 

Mr.  Springer  now  arose  and  gave  the  order  for 
them  to  pick  up  their  loads  and  march  which  they 
did  with  amazing  alacrity  and  we  got  out  of  that 
kraal  as  fast  as  we  could  without  showing  the  fear 
that  we  felt. 

A shouting  soon  halted  us.  The  owner  of  the  fowl 
was  running  after  us  calling  us  to  stop.  At  first  we 
paid  no  attention  but  he  kept  shouting,  “ You’re  on 
the  wrong  trail,  you’re  on  the  wrong  trail.”  He 
then  showed  us  the  right  one  which  we  followed, 
fearful  that  he  might  be  leading  us  into  some  new 
trap.  But  he  wasn’t.  Having  found  himself  com- 


178  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

pletely  outwitted  in  his  little  game  of  blackmail,  he 
showed  the  African’s  good-natured  acknowledgment 
of  his  defeat  and  was  ready  to  do  us  a good  turn  at 
once;  an  excellent  illustration  of,  ‘ ‘half- devil  and 
half-child.” 


XXXIY 


JOHN  WEBBA 

IT  might  have  been  twenty  years  ago,  for  the 
natives  of  Africa  have  no  way  of  keeping  track 
of  the  passing  years,  that  there  was  a great 
commotion  in  a little  village  far  up  on  the  Congo 
Eiver.  A trial  for  theft  had  been  held  and  the  theft 
proved.  Now  the  law  of  that  tribe  required  that 
the  thief  should  restore  fourfold. 

A caravan  passing  down  the  river  loaded  with 
ivory  and  rubber  had  seen  a pig  which  had  strayed 
farther  from  the  native  village  than  was  safe  for  a 
black,  razor- backed  porker.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
the  said  razor-back  was  eaten  bristles  and  all,  no 
part  of  him  being  wasted  nor  undue  time  spent  in 
the  cooking. 

But  retribution  followed  swiftly  and  now  the 
guilty  men  were  condemned  and  payment  demanded 
of  their  chief.  He  was  not  a cannibal — not  in  the  ac- 
cepted sense  of  the  word  though  he  would  not  have 
hesitated  to  eat  an  enemy  who  had  fallen  in  battle, 
and,  very  likely,  had  done  so.  But  not  to  the  extent 
that  he  would  deliberately  kill  and  eat  a slave.  In 
settlement  for  the  stolen  pig  he  decided  to  give  one 
slave  instead  of  the  four  pigs.  For  charity’s  sake, 
we  will  believe  that  he  hadn’t  the  pigs. 

The  name  of  the  little  slave  was  Yweba,  a name  which 
few  Europeans  could  pronounce  and  so  in  time  they 

179 


180  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

called  liim  Webba,  just  as  our  good  friend  Spears 
called  Tsaranamayi  Sammie  Myers,  because  it  was 
easier. 

Yweba  was  but  a lad  of  perhaps  ten  years  of  age 
that  morning  when  his  fate  was  sealed  and  they  took 
him  away  from  his  mother  and  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. He  wept  loudly  and  clung  to  his  mother  until 
they  dragged  him  away  from  her,  while  she  followed 
after  him  along  the  path  with  bitter  wailing  until 
the  men  turned  around  and  drove  her  back.  It  was 
the  last  time  they  ever  saw  each  other  and  the  heart- 
rending scene  burned  itself  into  the  child’s  brain, 
never  to  be  forgotten. 

All  day  they  walked  until  the  tender-footed  child 
who  had  only  played  about  the  kraal  was  hardly  able 
to  proceed  further.  But  in  that  country  a man  had 
no  mercy  on  his  own  son,  much  less  on  a slave,  and 
so  the  poor  little  creature  was  driven  forward  in  spite 
of  his  swollen,  blistered  feet.  The  result  was  that 
one  foot  subsequently  ulcerated  and  for  weeks  it 
looked  as  if  the  child  would  lose  his  leg,  if  not  his 
life.  But  after  many  months,  the  sore  gradually 
healed  though  it  left  a slight  lameness  that  would  go 
with  him  through  life. 

This  misfortune  did  not,  be  assured,  endear  the 
slave  to  his  master  who  was  a most  calloused  brute. 
He  hated  the  boy  for  his  affliction.  It  looked  to  him 
like  a dead  loss. 

Three  or  four  years  passed  and  then  a missionary 
went  to  live  at  Isangila,  some  ten  miles  away  from 
this  man’s  kraal.  Now  the  missionaries  were  consid- 
ered at  that  time  a fool  lot,  though  the  time  came 
when  the  suffering  tribe  came  to  regard  these  same 


John  Webba 


181 


missionaries  as  their  only  friends.  So  this  man  took 
his  slave  to  the  mission  and  left  him  to  work  for  the 
missionary  who  paid  the  chief  about  two  dollars’ 
worth  of  cloth  a year  for  his  services. 

There  were  fourteen  other  boys  at  the  mission,  but 
Yweba  outshone  them  all  in  his  studies.  It  did  not 
take  much  effort  to  do  that  either.  But  he  was  really 
a very  bright  boy,  and  what  was  stranger  still,  honest 
and  reliable.  None  of  these  things  were  character- 
istic features  of  the  Bafiote. 

Yweba  had  been  three  years  at  the  mission  when  I 
first  saw  him.  He  was  my  cook  and  native  teacher. 
Every  day  he  spent  one  or  two  hours  with  me  teach- 
ing me  the  Kifiote.  All  went  well  for  months  and 
then  there  came  on  an  epidemic  of  stealing  which 
spread  throughout  the  boys’  school  like  the  measles 
or  whooping-cough.  Yweba  withstood  the  tempta- 
tions set  before  him  by  the  other  boys  for  a long 
time,  but  at  last  yielded  to  their  sneers,  and  ate  one 
stolen  egg. 

From  that  time  on,  he  was  perfectly  miserable. 
He  knew  the  other  boys  were  stealing,  for  not  seldom 
they  came  into  his  cook-house  to  fry  their  stolen 
eggs.  He  grew  careless  and  stupid  in  the  school- 
room and  his  cooking  was  utterly  degenerate.  We 
could  not  imagine  what  was  the  matter.  He  never 
smiled  any  more  and  always  looked  sullen  and  angry. 

At  last  it  all  came  out  and  Yweba  confessed  with 
a glad  heart.  He  was  greatly  relieved  when  the 
teacher  knew  everything.  But  while  this  was  un- 
doubtedly a relief,  it  did  not  take  away  the  moral 
burden  which  had  been  laid  upon  him.  He  con- 
tinued to  wallow  in  the  Slough  of  Despond. 


182  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

One  bright  moonlight  evening,  as  we  sat  out  on 
the  veranda  of  the  tiny  grass  house  which  we  called 
home,  viewing  the  majestic  sweep  of  the  river  as  it 
roared  past  and  down  over  the  Isangila  Falls,  we 
called  Yweba  to  us  and  his  teacher  gave  him  a tender, 
loving  heart-to-heart  talk  after  which  we  had  a season 
of  prayer.  Then  Yweba  prayed.  Such  a simple, 
childlike  prayer,  which  I shall  never  forget  I 

“ Oh,  Lord,”  he  prayed,  “ I’m  so  sorry  I stole  and 
lied.  I want  you  to  forgive  me.  But  I can’t  stop 
lying  and  stealing  of  myself.  Won’t  you  take  all  the 
lie  and  the  steal  out  of  my  heart  for  the  sake  of  Jesus 
who  is  our  Saviour  ? ” 

The  next  morning  I caught  sight  of  a figure  run- 
ning past  the  house  early  in  the  morning.  It  was 
Yweba,  whom  I had  not  seen  run  for  weeks.  He 
was  running  now  with  a firebrand  in  his  hand  towards 
the  kitchen.  On  his  face  was  the  radiance  which 
comes  only  from  within. 

“ How  is  it  with  you,  Yweba? ” I asked  as  soon  as 
an  opportunity  was  afforded  for  asking. 

“Oh,  I’m  so  happy!”  he  exclaimed.  “I  felt  so 
badly  when  I left  you  and  the  master  last  night.  I 
went  to  the  boys’  hut  and  laid  down  and  tried  to 
sleep  but  I couldn’t,  for  I was  so  wretched.  Then 
after  all  the  other  boys  fell  asleep,  I got  up  and 
prayed.  I just  opened  my  heart  and  the  happy 
came  in.  I know  Jesus  has  forgiven  me.” 

He  had  opened  his  heart  to  Jesus  and  the  happy 
came  in  ! And  the  happy  shone  out  through  his  face 
which  glowed  with  his  new-found  joy.  He  wanted 
to  be  baptized  at  once  and  arrangements  were  made 
for  this  when  there  came  an  unexpected  setback. 


XXXV 

TRIED  AS  BY  FIRE 


S soon  as  Vweba  “received  the  happy  back 


into  his  heart,  ” he  began  to  tell  his  expe- 


rience and  try  and  persuade  others  to  enter 


into  the  same  joy.  This  effort  was  met  by  some  of 
his  schoolmates  with  ridicule,  others  said  they  would 
think  about  it,  while  a few  were  openly  hostile.  In 
some  way  the  word  soon  reached  the  chief’s  ears. 

It  was  about  a week  later  when  the  chief  appeared, 
having  two  or  three  men  with  him  all  armed  with 
their  guns.  They  demanded  an  interview  with  the 
missionary  at  once,  even  though  he  were  sick  with 
fever.  They  were  in  a most  unreasonable  and  un- 
reasoning rage.  The  missionary  tried  to  bring  them 
to  calmness  and  talk  sense  with  them,  but  they  were 
too  excited  for  anything  but  fierce  denunciations  and 
angry  threats.  Then  his  Norse  blood  was  aroused 
and,  sick  as  he  was,  he  rose  up  and  gave  them  to  un- 
derstand that  they  could  not  frighten  him  by  any  of 
their  threats  of,  personal  violence.  Moreover,  he 
wanted  them  to  clearly  understand  another  thing, 
and  that  was  that  they  were  not  to  do  Vweba  any 
harm.  He  would  not  yield  to  their  demand  that  the 
boy  leave  the  station.  He  was  under  contract  to  stay 
a year  and  they  should  not  drag  him  off  now.  If 
they  did  any  mischief  whatever  to  the  boy,  he  would 
— as  an  extreme  measure — inform  Bula  Matadi. 


183 


184  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

Then  he  sank  back  exhausted  and  the  cowardly 
Bafiote,  seeing  that  he  could  not  be  intimidated, 
calmed  down  at  once. 

Their  next  effort  was  to  work  on  Yweba,  which 
was  more  easily  done.  He  did  not  fear  for  himself, 
but  when  his  chief  told  him  that  unless  he  left  the 
mission  and  came  back  to  the  kraal,  he  would  come 
in  the  night  and  burn  the  grass  house  down  over  the 
missionary’s  head,  the  boy  began  to  weaken.  He 
dared  not  tell  us  what  the  chief  had  threatened  and 
so  gave  us  no  little  concern  about  himself  when  he 
began  to  beg  that  we  would  let  him  leave  and  go  back 
to  his  master’s  kraal. 

It  was  only  a few  days,  however,  before  his  beloved 
teacher  took  the  long  last  journey  and  through  those 
dark  days  Yweba  forgot  all  else  than  his  devotion 
to  the  teacher’s  wife  and  baby  who  also  went  down 
close  to  those  same  gates  of  death,  but  did  not  enter. 
Subsequently  they  were  taken  down  to  Yivi  and  two 
other  missionaries  came  to  Isangila. 

Then  the  chief  began  to  intimidate  Yweba  again 
insisting  that  the  only  thing  that  would  prevent  his 
burning  the  missionaries  up  alive  in  their  house  was 
for  Yweba  to  return  with  him  to  the  kraal.  Had  the 
missionaries  known  all  this  they  would  probably 
have  done  the  unwise  thing  of  interfering.  They  did 
not  and  were  pained  exceedingly  when  Yweba  pleaded 
so  hard  to  go  that  they  could  not  refuse. 

The  chief  was  triumphant.  “Now,”  he  said  to 
his  slave,  “now,  I’ll  show  you  to  live  as  a heathen 
should  live.” 

It  makes  one  shudder  to  think  of  the  temptations 
which  were  set  in  that  boy’s  way  during  the  next 


Tried  as  by  Fire  185 

nine  months.  There  was  the  palm  wine,  the  awful, 
indescribable,  sensual  devil  dances,  not  to  mention 
all  the  indecencies  of  daily  kraal  life.  The  three 
Hebrews  of  old  had  no  hotter  fire  through  which  to 
pass. 

But  God  cares  for  His  own.  One  day  the  chief  de- 
cided that  Yweba  was  strong  enough  now  to  carry 
loads  on  the  trail  and  so  sent  him  over  to  the  govern- 
ment station  with  some  other  men  to  carry  rubber  and 
ivory  down  to  Matadi.  This  caravan,  for  some  rea- 
son, came  to  Yivi  first,  to  the  station  where  I had  in 
the  meantime  been  transferred,  and  I was  surprised 
one  day  while  sick  with  fever  to  see  Yweba  walk  in. 
It  was  on  this  trip  that  he  learned  that  the  Yivi  Mis- 
sion House  was  made  of  stone  and  so  his  chief  could 
not  burn  it  and  during  the  next  few  weeks  he  made 
up  his  mind  as  to  his  course  of  action. 

The  next  time  his  chief  sent  him  down  with  loads, 
the  caravan  went  to  their  usual  camping  place  three 
miles  from  Yivi  down  the  river.  Yweba  turned  over 
his  load  but  did  not  wait  for  another.  Seizing  his 
opportunity,  he  slipped  away  and  made  for  the  mis- 
sion. There  was  no  path  he  could  follow  and  the 
jungle  was  almost  impenetrable  in  places.  Moreover 
he  had  to  follow  high  precipices  at  a dizzy  height 
above  the  roaring,  rushing,  seething,  mighty  Congo 
into  which  he  would  surely  fall  if  he  made  a single 
misstep,  to  be  eaten  by  the  greedy  crocodiles  which 
swarmed  its  banks. 

He  also  had  to  force  his  way  through  ravines 
where  tall  trees,  thick  underbrush  and  great  rocks 
made  the  place  the  haunt  of  the  leopard  and  boa- con- 
strictors. Three  white  men  have  told  me  at  different 


1 86  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

times  that  this  three  miles  was  more  to  be  dreaded 
than  a sixty -mile  trip  to  Isangila. 

But  at  last  he  succeeded  in  gaining  his  refuge 
though  torn  and  scratched,  bruised  and  bleeding. 

There  were  also  at  Vivi  a brother  and  sister,  Mal- 
afine  and  Sala,  the  latter  a girl  about  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  of  age. 

A year  passed  by  during  which  there  was  a change 
of  leaders  in  our  mission  work  for  Africa.  That 
heroic  man  of  God,  Bishop  William  Taylor,  so  fre- 
quently called  a second  Paul,  had  reached  the  end  of 
his  active  service.  The  Church  and  the  world  will 
need  the  perspective  of  a few  decades  to  see  that 
grand  old  man  in  his  true  light.  How  true  it  is  that 
if  a man  have  a hundred  successes  and  one  failure,  as 
a rule  the  world  sees  but  the  one  failure  and  forgets 
the  many  successes,  just  as  a copper  coin  held  close 
to  the  eye  entirely  obscures  the  most  magnificent 
landscape. 

William  Taylor  had  a vision  of  the  great  principle 
underlying  God’s  plan  for  the  extension  and  estab- 
lishment of  the  Gospel  among  all  nations,  the  devel- 
opment in  every  land  of  a self-supporting,  self-propa- 
gating church.  He  was  not  always  able  to  work  out 
the  details  of  such  a plan  since  his  was  the  type  of  a 
seer,  a prophet  and  an  evangelist  rather  than  that  of 
a twentieth  century  business  man.  So  his  demon- 
stration of  that  plan,  as  far  as  his  work  in  Africa 
was  concerned,  was  perhaps  faulty,  and  he  failed  to 
realize  his  great  hopes. 

But  he  did  accomplish  the  feat  of  drawing  the 
attention  of  the  whole  civilized  world  to  the  prin- 
ciples and  problems  of  self-support.  He  set  men  and 


Tried  as  by  Fire  187 

churches  thinking  and  many  of  these  have  solved  the 
problem  for  themselves  in  local  fields.  It  is  as  yet 
too  early  a date  to  say  which  of  these  methods  is 
applicable  everywhere,  but  the  indications  are  that 
of  necessity  some  tried  and  proved  methods  embody- 
ing these  principles  are  being  more  and  more  gener- 
ally adopted. 

Bishop  Taylor’s  scheme  for  establishing  large  in- 
dustrial centres  is  becoming  more  and  more  popu- 
lar. But  his  plan  for  his  missionaries  to  have  all 
things  in  common  was  not  a success,  though  there  are 
not  a few  Boman  Catholic  and  Anglican  missions 
which  are  run  on  that  plan.  These,  however,  con- 
sist of  celebate  orders,  and  not  of  groups  of  families, 
which  latter  Bishop  Taylor  especially  approved  of 
in  his  missions.  But  even  in  these  celebate  orders, 
there  are  serious  handicaps  thereby.  Moreover,  his 
hope  that  the  missionaries  would  soon  be  able  to 
support  themselves  as  well  as  their  boarding  pupils 
was  not  realized.  But  the  large  industrial  centres, 
which  were  so  strongly  advocated  by  David  Living- 
stone, and  later  by  William  Taylor,  have  been  proved 
a great  success  in  Africa.  There  is  also  a marked 
advance  in  the  development  of  self-support  among 
the  converts  in  all  foreign  lands.  And  if  the  Chris- 
tian people  at  home  could  only  be  persuaded  to  give 
their  money  for  the  sending  of  double  and  treble  the 
number  of  missionaries  to  the  foreign  field,  instead 
of  insisting  on  paying  for  the  support  of  orphans, 
pastor- teachers  and  Bible- women,  that  desirable  end 
would  be  hastened  considerably. 

It  is  a remarkable  thing  that  though  William 
Taylor  made  the  great  stir  that  has  almost  revo- 


1 88  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

lutionized  missionary  methods,  yet  it  was  left  to  other 
denominations  to  approach  most  closely  to  the  ideal 
of  self-support,  the  work  in  Korea  under  the  Pres- 
byterians and  of  the  Anglicans  in  Uganda  being 
notable  illustrations  of  the  practical  working  out  of  a 
self-supporting  plan. 

But  this  is  a digression.  It  was  about  the  time 
that  Yweba  made  his  last  heroic  break  for  liberty  of 
conscience  that  Bishop  Taylor  was  retired  and  Bishop 
Hartzell  was  elected  in  his  place.  And  when  the 
new  Bishop  made  his  first  episcopal  visitation  to  the 
Congo,  he  found  Yweba  and  the  girl  Sala  waiting  for 
his  coming  in  order  to  receive  Christian  baptism. 

They  were  baptized  in  the  Congo,  whose  waters 
had  been  music  to  their  ears  from  earliest  childhood. 
That  was  a simple,  picturesque  and  impressive  scene 
on  that  25th  day  of  April,  1897.  There  were  the 
little  group  of  children,  with  Miss  Hilda  Larson, 
their  devoted  teacher,  whose  days  of  earthly  service 
were  already  nearly  numbered.  Behind  them  rose 
the  high,  north  bank  of  the  river,  almost  sheer  for 
about  two  hundred  feet.  In  front  of  them  was  a mile 
of  swift,  swirling,  eddying,  yellowish  river,  mighty 
and  dangerous,  its  opposite  shore,  also  high  and 
mountainous,  veiled  with  a soft  blue  haze.  Above 
the  sky  was  overcast  and  dull,  as  was  usual  in  the  dry 
season,  making  it  safe  for  the  Bishop  to  stand  there, 
his  snowy  head  uncovered  as  an  outward  recognition 
of  the  Divine  Presence.  This  was  the  first  Christian 
baptism  he  had  been  privileged  to  perform  in  his 
new  field  of  labour  and  it  had  for  him  more  than  the 
usual  significance.  It  seemed  to  him  a token  that 
during  his  administration,  the  Great  Father  would 


Tried  as  by  Fire  189 

give  him  thousands  of  other  souls  for  his  hire,  thou- 
sands of  other  black  diamonds  for  the  Master’s  crown, 
— a token  which  has  already  come  to  pass. 

When  the  Bishop  had  completed  his  first  tour  of 
Africa  and  faced  the  fact  that  only  $7,000  was  allowed 
for  the  work  in  the  entire  continent,  he  consulted 
with  the  missionaries  and  with  the  powers  that  be, 
with  the  result  that  the  Congo  work  and  property 
were  turned  over  to  the  Swedish  Missionary  Society, 
whose  field  was  adjacent  to  ours. 

So  Miss  Larsen  took  the  four  children  who  were 
living  at  Yivi  and  went  to  Angola  and  took  up  her 
work  at  Quessua.  Here  they  joined  the  church  and 
it  was  only  a day’s  march  from  here  that  I found 
them  again. 


XXXVI 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

THE  long  1,500  mile  trek  across  Africa  from 
Broken  Hill  was  near  its  end  and  we  were 
now  enjoying  the  fellowship  of  Christian 
workers.  After  so  long  a period  travelling  through 
unrelieved  heathenism,  we  were  the  better  able  to 
appreciate  the  work  done  by  those  heroic  men  and 
women  in  Angola. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  the  day  as  we  drew  near 
Nenzele  and  the  sky  was  alight  with  all  the  splendour 
of  a tropical  sunset  when  my  men  carried  me  over  the 
last  miry  stream  and  I saw  coming  towards  me  on 
the  other  side  a beautiful  young  native  woman. 

Could  that  lovely  creature  be  Sala,  the  scrawny, 
homely  little  girl  I left  behind  at  Vivi  twelve  years 
before?  I couldn’t  credit  it.  And  yet  who  else 
should  be  coming  out  to  meet  my  machilla  ? Calling 
to  my  men  to  stop,  I got  out  and  this  girl  ran  to  me, 
threw  herself  into  my  arms  exclaiming,  in  English, 
“ My  mother  ! Oh,  my  mother ! ” 

We  walked  up  the  hill  together  chatting  in  English 
over  the  wonderful  experiences  we  had  had,  her  neatly 
clad  two-year-old  boy  running  along  at  our  side.  At 
the  top  of  the  hill  I saw  a neat  cluster  of  buildings 
and  soon  Vweba,  a splendid,  tall,  manly  fellow,  came 
striding  towards  me  with,  “ Well,  bless  the  Lord  ! If 
He  hasn’t  given  us  to  see  our  mother  again  ! I never 
thought  we  would  have  had  this  pleasure  ! 71 

190 


•91 


After  Many  Days 

His  English  was  almost  perfect  and  his  wife’s  only 
a little  less  so.  He  spoke  Portuguese  quite  as  well. 
It  was  rather  an  amusing  fact  to  all  of  us  that  we  had 
all  three  forgotten  the  Kifiote  in  which  we  had  con- 
versed altogether  on  the  Congo  and  which  was  their 
native  tongue. 

We  went  into  their  little  mud  and  pole  house  like 
the  one  we  ourselves  had  occupied  at  Broken  Hill 
and  the  natives  crowded  around  us  to  greet  their 
teacher’s  white  friends  from  afar.  What  a contrast 
these  two  were  to  the  dirty  crowd  of  half-clothed 
heathen  to  whom  they  had  just  come  as  u foreign 
missionaries”  ! The  hut  was  so  clean  and  so  tidy. 
John  Webba  (for  such  he  had  been  baptized)  had 
built  the  house  and  furnished  it  by  his  own  super- 
vision and  helped  with  his  own  hands.  There  were 
two  little  beds  he  had  made  covered  over  with  quilts 
of  Miriam’s  handiwork.  There  was  a small  table 
covered  with  a clean,  cheap  cloth.  As  soon  as  we  ar- 
rived, Miriam  made  lemonade  for  us  in  a clean  glass 
pitcher  and  served  it  in  spotless  glasses  of  which  they 
only  had  two.  The  three  children  stood  or  sat 
quietly  around  with  bright  eager  faces,  but  too  well- 
behaved  to  interrupt  the  conversation.  It  was  simply 
wonderful  to  me  to  see  how  the  inward  change  had 
wrought  the  outward. 

But  what  astonished  me  the  most  was  the  keen,  in- 
telligent interest  manifested  by  Webba  in  our  trip 
across  the  continent.  With  true  missionary  spirit 
and  zeal,  his  own  heart  had  been  burning  for  those 
untouched  tribes  in  the  interior.  Now  and  then  he 
had  met  Lunda,  Songo  or  Bachokwe  carriers  who  had 
come  to  Malange  with  their  wax  and  rubber  for  sale. 


192  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

He  had  discovered  that  their  language  was  not  so 
different  from  the  Kimbundu  but  that  he  could 
soon  have  made  himself  understood  by  them.  He 
had  been  enquiring  of  them  and  the  Wambundu 
concerning  that  interior  country  and  moreover  had 
been  making  that  a subject  of  earnest  prayer. 

He  was  now  opening  up  new  work  among  a new 
tribe,  the  Jingas,  I think,  who  wore  their  hair  in 
long  curls  down  their  backs.  These  curls  were 
heavily  laden  with  black  clay  and  palm  oil  with 
which  their  scanty  garments  also  seemed  saturated. 
There  was  no  mistaking  them  for  anything  else  than 
dirty  heathens. 

And  here  was  this  boy  who  had  been  a dirty 
little  heathen  himself  only  valued  by  his  people  as 
worth  four  pigs,  as  their  missionary  and  teacher  ! 

Yet  it  is  thus  the  Gospel  leaven  works  and  must 
work.  It  is  idle  for  us  to  talk  about  the  necessity  of 
thoroughly  manning  all  the  old  fields  before  we  open 
new  ones.  It  can  never  be  done.  The  Gospel  seed 
must  be  scattered  broadcast  and  a few  of  the  natives 
trained  to  be  leaders  but  the  great  work  of  evan- 
gelization must  be  done  through  the  natives  them- 
selves. Moreover,  it  must  be  done  by  self-supporting 
churches. 

We  must  care  for  the  infant  churches  and  not  only 
teach  them  to  walk  but  train  them  to  work.  But 
there  is  a danger  sometimes  that  we  hold  them  in  the 
leading  strings  too  long.  Like  our  own  offspring, 
the  time  must  come  for  them  to  set  up  housekeeping 
for  themselves  and  to  assume  their  own  responsibili- 
ties while  we  turn  our  efforts  and  money  to  the  un- 
touched fields  which  remain. 


193 


After  Many  Days 

Bishop  Taylor  failed  to  find  self-support  for  his 
white  missionaries  on  the  Congo  and  the  experience 
of  nearly  all  missions  has  been  to  prove  that  with 
rare  exceptions  the  foreign  missionary  cannot  main- 
tain himself  and  at  the  same  time  effectively  carry  on 
his  work  for  Christ  in  heathen  lands.  But  the  with- 
drawing more  and  more  of  foreign  funds  and  the 
leading  of  native  churches  and  primary  schools  to 
support  their  own  pastors  and  teachers  is  steadily  in- 
creasing in  favour  among  missionaries  although  there 
is  still  a large  minority  which  is  in  favour  of  raising 
all  the  support  for  native  work  in  America  and  Eng- 
land. 

To  our  minds,  this  does  not  seem  wise.  In  Africa 
the  natives  have  great  resources.  They  can  always 
earn  money  and  in  most  places  they  can  make  large 
wages  working  in  the  towns  or  in  the  mines.  There 
are  hundreds  of  cases  of  self-supporting  native 
churches  among  all  denominations  in  South  Africa. 

Let  us  then  no  longer  cry  out  that  we  must  not 
open  any  more  new  fields  until  the  old  ones  are  thor- 
oughly evangelized  but  let  us  enter  the  open  doors 
and  in  every  tribe  and  nation  spend  the  most  of  our 
energies  in  training  up  a band  of  Christian  workers 
who  in  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  will  be  able  to  do 
far  more  than  we  can  in  propagating  the  Gospel. 

As  we  sat  there  looking  at  Webba  and  his  wife, 
miracles  of  God’s  power  to  save  and  to  use  the 
native,  our  minds  ran  back  to  that  dark  interior 
through  which  we  had  been  passing.  There  among 
those  savage,  sullen  peoples  are  hundreds  of  boys 
and  girls  who  are  ready  to  become  shining  witnesses 
of  Jesus’  love  in  even  five  years’  time  can  they  but 


194  Snap  Shots  From  Sunny  Africa 

have  the  chance.  They  would  not  be  the  polished 
products,  nor  the  exceedingly  able  and  competent 
workers  that  Webba  and  his  wife  are,  but  they 
would  be  quite  ready  for  the  work  at  their  hands. 

“Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  look  on  the  fields;  for 
they  are  white  already  to  harvest.  . . . The  har- 

vest truly  is  plenteous,  but  the  labourers  are  few ; 
pray  ye  therefore  the  Lord  of  the  harvest,  that  He  will 
send  forth  labourers  into  His  harvest.” 

“And  Jesus  came  and  spake  unto  them  saying, 
All  power  is  given  unto  Me  in  heaven  and  in  earth. 

“Go  ye  therefore  and  teach  all  nations , baptizing  them 
in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Holy  Ghost : teaching  them  to  observe  all  things 
whatsoever  I have  commanded  you : and,  lo,  I am 
with  you  alway,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world.” 


